Rusted Dawn
by Pandora Culpa
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
1. Chapter 1

The door is kicked open with enough force to send it rebounding back off of the wall. Hawkeye eases her hand off the butt of her pistol, scowling disapproval at the red-coated incarnation of fury stomping into the office, but Colonel Mustang doesn't even look up from the paperwork on his desk. Calm and cool, as though a hole hasn't just been knocked in the plaster of his wall, he simply says, "Good afternoon, Fullmetal. Is this a social call?"

"Like I'd bother," the young man growls, baring his teeth wolfishly. A grubby hand, stained bandages trailing from his wrist, slams a wad of paper on the desk. "My report. Are you happy now?"

The Colonel hisses an exaggerated sigh, lifting the sheets between thumb and forefinger with a faint expression of distaste. "And why should I be happy to receive _this?" _he inquires with a raised brow.

Fullmetal snorts, stuffs his hands in his pockets. "It's on time."

"Honestly, Fullmetal, I'd rather you took the extra hour or so necessary to at least make an attempt at legibility." He flips the top sheet over, shakes his head. "Train schedules, again?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," the young man snarls, voice laced with sarcasm. "I left the good stationary at home. Look, I use what I have, alright?"

"Even train stations have paper. I'm sure your watch could secure a couple sheets." He can almost feel the look of disgust that Fullmetal is shooting him, and he keeps his eyes trained on the ragged excuse for a report.

"You know, you're really not as smart as you think you are." Fullmetal kicks the leg of the desk, sulky and rebellious. "Can I go now?"

"You should get some ice for your face." Something in Hawkeye's tone manages to be both solicitous and chiding at the same time, while still retaining its professional decorum. The Colonel blinks, his gaze lifting from the pages as her words sink in, and finally takes a good look at his newly-returned subordinate.

Gold eyes, tarnished to bronze with fatigue, glare back with muted anger from a face half-covered with a sickly purple bruise. Blood is crusted along the line of his jaw, as though he'd given his face a quick wash, but failed to mop it all away. The tips of his hair are darkened as well; more blood, and Mustang is beginning to wonder if it is all his, or if it belonged to some other unfortunate soul. Clasping his arms across his chest in a pose of exasperation, Fullmetal is resting nearly all his weight to his left, propping himself up on his automail leg, only pride and determination holding him upright.

How had he not seen this before?

"Dismissed," he tells him, curt, but not unkind. "Get some rest."

Fullmetal glowers at him, as though that were the wrong response. He limps toward the door, grumbling beneath his breath, and pauses again once he reaches the doorway. An infinitesimal shake of his head (the Colonel would have missed it, had he not been watching so closely), and he starts to slouch onward.

"Fullmetal?" The gentleness in his voice surprises even himself, and the young man turns, tense and wary. "Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

He almost thinks he's said something inappropriate, for the volatile alchemist scowls at him in silence for a long minute. But the heat fades, the lids over those golden eyes sagging. "Nothing I haven't tried to tell you before," he mumbles, and is gone.

* * *

He stares after Edward, inexplicably certain that he has just missed something vitally important. He can almost feel the shape of it, like the ragged edges of a wound that won't knit; bothersome, painful, and irresistible to incautious prodding.

_You're not as smart as you think you are. _ This time, as he replays the words in his head, he can almost hear the challenge in them, and the disappointment.

"Sir?" Hawkeye's voice at his elbow brings him back from his reverie. "Sir, these forms..."

"Yes, Lieutenant." He sighs, forcing himself to focus on the work before him. "Thank you."

He read the papers she offers him quickly, slashing his signature on the appropriate pages, and afterwards she retreats from his office, leaving him to stare at the torn and stained report at the edge of his blotter.

Is there something you wanted to tell me?

Nothing I haven't tried to tell you before.

* * *

As Hawkeye is preparing to leave for the day, the Colonel calls her in to his office.

"Before you go, I'd like all of Fullmetal's reports from the past year," he says straightaway. "Not the copies, but the originals."

The First Lieutenant gives him a half-irritated, half-curious look, but shrugs out of her coat. "Are you sure?" she inquires. "The copies are easier to read."

Dissembling comes easy, even when directed at her. "I know, his handwriting is appalling. I'm having some trouble making out a few words in his latest travesty, and want to compare them against his previous reports." She arches an eyebrow at him, clearly aware that this is not the real reason, but refraining from pointing it out. With a sharp salute she leaves, returning ten minutes later with a bulging folder.

"Is there anything else, sir?" Dark, inscrutable eyes study him, and he shakes his head.

"No, thank you Lieutenant. I'll just straighten this out, and be off myself."

She nods. "Have a good weekend, sir."

Once he's alone, Mustang opens the folder and begins flipping idly through the messy reports, wondering just what he is looking for. It was a hunch that had him pull out these old papers, so vague as to be almost negligible. Sighing, he snags a pen from his blotter and begins to take notes.

* * *

An hour later, a shape is starting to emerge. Five other reports boast a final page of train schedules, while four more are concluded with hotel bills. The rest are neater; lined paper, almost legible handwriting. Interestingly, those are also from the more routine assignments he'd sent Fullmetal out on. The other nine dealt with much more trying circumstances. He taps his pen on the desk, considering. The four reports with notes scrawled on the backs of hotel bills were from an ugly series of attacks in Southern; it had been necessary to send Fullmetal out repeatedly until the entire band of thugs and rogue alchemists had been subdued. Not a pleasant situation at all.

But the last five were far worse. The situations were unconnected, but each time Fullmetal had returned injured or withdrawn. The reports, despite their stark, unsophisticated language and childish scrawl, were telling enough. Chimeras, illegal experimentation, religious fanaticism. One involved an orphanage, and even he had cringed as he read the details of the headmaster's crimes. And this latest... he pulls the new report closer, frowning. Human transmutation this time. With Edward's past, nightmarish would likely be the mildest term to explain his experience.

The start of a headache curls around the back of his eyes, and he rubs them irritably. The rational part of his mind explains that it makes sense for reports of the worst missions to be written on whatever lay at hand, but plain paper is easily obtained. The train schedules seem more deliberate; before he's always assumed it was designed to flout authority in general, and irk himself in particular, but he's increasingly convinced that there is something more here. Something subtle, which is odd in and of itself, because Fullmetal is never subtle. Even his messy handwriting is bold, punctuated with slashes and scribbles and how does he manage to not tear the paper with the force of his hand?

The clock in the corner chimes softly; six in the evening, on a Friday no less. Only Fullmetal could give him cause to stay late on a Friday night, so troublesome...

Mustang's intuition flares to life again, and he stops, scanning over the reports as the faintest memory tickles his mind. Sure enough- most of the reports were handed in throughout the week, whenever Edward arrived back in Central. But all of the reports with the train schedules were delivered on Fridays, even when Fullmetal had come back to the city earlier in the week.

It's like picking apart a knot, seeing the strands unravel. Edward generally brought in his reports shortly after he returned to town, the sooner to be back in the library with his brother. But sometimes he'd hole up in the dorms, ignoring everything but a direct order to present himself in the office, and when he did show it was with poor grace and bad temper- and usually without his report. In one instance only had he brought the report right away; incidentally, he'd also returned to Central that Friday morning.

He bends back over the papers, anticipation of cracking this code pressing back the ache in his eyes and the grumble of hunger from his stomach. Dangerous or despicable assignments. Fridays. Train schedules. The link is there, but what does it mean?

He begins studying the schedule pages themselves, reading the haphazard writing crawling over the printed words. They look almost as though Edward had simply snatched up the paper and begun scrawling, regardless of where the top of the page actually was. But it doesn't take him long to see that where the writing starts is not where the importance lies.

It's where the lines end.

There are a number of small towns that skirt Central, many no more than an hour away by train, and a fair amount of people who work in the city commute in from them. There are regular trains that run practically day and night between them, carrying the influx of workers like the tide. And on every Friday report, a different town's line is indicated, every line of handwriting unerringly leading only to the schedules for whichever town was chosen.

As he stares at the pages, it suddenly seems to the Colonel that he's been overlooking the plainest of communication. Here the handwriting leads to Sephore, and on the next they direct him to Flosten. Even the doodles in the margins and the randomly placed insults, which he'd previously thought spoke only of Fullmetal's lack of maturity, now seem to express frustration. Look at me, they scream. Are you blind?

Picking up the newest report, he scans the train schedule. Bisman, a town about forty five minutes from Central, is the destination. Most of the trains have already departed, but the last line of handwriting on the page (_why the fuck don't you get off your ass and do your own dirty work sometime, Colonel Bastard?_) leads to the 109, departing at seven fifteen. A quick glance at the clock tells him that if he hurries he can still make it, and he slides the reports back into the folder even as he's calling the motor pool, and securing a car.

A brief train ride, and perhaps he can solve this riddle that Fullmetal has placed in his hands.

* * *

He has plenty of time to think, staring out the window as the darkened scenery rushes past in streaks of gray and black, muted earthtones. Wondering what could cause Fullmetal to send him such cryptic codes, whether it has to do with the Philosopher's Stone, or if something more sinister is afoot. This level of secrecy is more than unusual coming from the young alchemist, and not for the first time, he slips his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, stroking the rough fabric of his gloves for reassurance. It wouldn't be the first time he's stepped into the line of fire for Fullmetal, but he generally had some idea of what he was getting involved in when it happened. This time he's moving blind, and it's not a very comfortable sensation.

Once he arrives, then what? There are no further clues to lead him once he reaches his destination, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. What was he thinking? Following the unspoken challenge of a cocky, underaged alchemist with a well known penchant for troublemaking and issues with authority figures... Ludicrous. He knows better. He should have simply called Edward into his office, demanded an explanation. He should have left a note, telling his staff where he was going. Just in case.

The speaker at the front of the car squawks out the station name, and moments later he can feel the steady rhythm of the train begin to change, the metronomic chatter of the wheels slowing gradually as the brakes take hold with a whine. He reaches beneath his seat and pulls out a small black bag, the one he keeps at the office, packed in case of emergencies. Even if this is a dead end he doesn't expect he'll be home this evening, though the irritation he'd normally feel over this is dulled by curiosity and the faintest tingle of adrenaline. His fingers dip briefly into his pocket again, a quick touch, before settling back and waiting to arrive in Bisman.

He steps from the train car, conspicuous in blue and gold among the local travelers in the small, rural station. For a moment he stands still in the middle of the thin crowd, letting the other people mill around him, greeting family or simply gathering their bags. The train steams, lets out a melancholy whistle, before grudgingly grinding into motion again, and the Colonel takes a moment to study his surroundings, looking for some clue as to where to proceed now. The other travelers have disappeared into the night, leaving him standing on the platform and as Mustang is wondering if the stationmaster might have any information, he realizes he's not entirely alone.

At the other end of the station, a familiar figure in black is sitting on a bench. He unfolds his legs, standing with deliberate slowness and gives the Colonel a sharp glare.

"Fucking took you long enough," Fullmetal grumbles, limping over to meet him. "Do you ever read those damn reports?"

The bruise on the young man's face is garishly purpled in the unsteady lamplight, making his gold eyes seem brighter than usual despite the exhaustion clearly shading them. There's something disturbingly familiar in that gaze, although Mustang can't put his finger on it, but he tucks away the information anyway, to consider later. "When I can decipher them," he answers. "Though I'm really not accustomed to receiving requests from my subordinates on coded train schedules." Fullmetal flushes, gloved hands wrapping tight into fists at his side. But instead of exploding, the young man takes a deep breath, lets it out and gives him a nasty look.

"Shut the fuck up, Mustang. I don't have the energy for your shit tonight."

"You're the one who lured me out here, Fullmetal." Edward tosses his head, rolling his eyes and Mustang sees the dark crust of blood still lining the other man's jaw. "If you're tired, why aren't you resting like I told you to? Where's Alphonse?"

At his brother's name, the fire in his face extinguishes and Edward hunches in on himself. "He's back in Central. He's got a hotel room, and a pile of books. He'll be fine for the night."

Roy shakes his head. "Only half an answer. Why are we here?"

Fullmetal shoots him another dark look. "Not now. Just... later, alright? C'mon." He starts trudging toward the ramp, without bothering to see if he's followed. After a moment Mustang strides after him, his fingers itching for the gloves in his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

The place he's led is a hotel, small, like pretty much everything else in Bisman, and tidy, most likely due only to lack of use. Fullmetal has the uncommon decency to inquire if he's eaten before they enter, explaining that the folks here probably haven't even heard of room service, let alone offer it. More intrigued than hungry, Mustang declines, and follows him inside.

Passing a middle aged man behind the counter, chair tilted back on two legs as he reads a newspaper, Edward heads for the stairs, the Colonel at his heels. He has a room on the third floor, which Mustang finds odd, considering his strong doubt that there are more than one or two other guests taking lodging there. He drops his bag by the door, watching as Edward collapses on the bed like a puppet with it's strings cut, flopping bonelessly until he's half-curled at the foot, toeing his heavy boots off and letting them drop to the floor with dull thuds. Giving him the usual sardonic smirk, Mustang leans against the closed door, watching the young man with amusement. "Care to fill me in now?"

Fullmetal ignores the question. Waving a gloved hand vaguely in the direction of the dresser, he says, "You want a drink? There's a bottle of scotch, but I don't have any glasses."

Mustang blinks. Something is wrong, very wrong here. Entrapment in the first thing that comes to mind, although he can't imagine what offense might enlist Edward in such a plan. No matter how they've sparred in the past, or how obnoxious and insubordinate the young man can be, Edward has always been possessed of a strict, almost prickly honor. Nor has he ever been afraid to confront any problem, any authority, head on.

_Caution_, he thinks. _Tread carefully_. _I haven't done anything improper, and we're just talking_. Tamping down the initial flare of paranoia, he gives Edward a small frown. "How the hell did you manage to buy liquor?"

The little bastard smirks back at him. "None of your business. Want some or not?"

He walks over and picks the bottle up, pretending to read the label. "I think you're trying to change the subject." Offering the bottle to his companion, he gives a grim smile. "Or were _you_ planning on partaking?"

Edward grimaces extravagantly. "Fuck no, I don't drink that shit! Don't know why you do, you have any idea what it does to your liver?" He sprawls onto his back, hands clasped over his stomach, an uneasy frown slipping across his face.

Mustang glances around for a chair, but there are none in the room; he settles for taking a seat at the head of the bed, still weighing the unopened bottle in one hand. "So Fullmetal," he says, all seriousness, "would you explain why you went through all the secrecy to bring me out here?"

"You in some hurry? Got a date after this?" He can see Edward's lips curling in a sneer, and his patience abruptly snaps.

"No, I've just been summoned an hour outside of Central- and my home for that matter- on a Friday night after a long work week, without any kind of explanation and at the behest of an ill-mannered subordinate who'd sooner insult me than give me the time of day. I haven't eaten, I'm tired, and all I want is something _approaching_ an answer!"

"Fuck you," Edward snarls, but the usual heat behind the retort is lacking. "Fucking shit, you think this is easy?" His fingers lace tighter, the automail grip making Mustang wince as he watches.

"I have no idea," he replies frankly. "But I'm listening."

Edward is silent for a few moments, still staring upward, but his frown only deepens. The struggle to speak is plain on his face, and the Colonel watches with some fascination as determination finally overwhelms the young man's reticence, though his eyes never leave the ceiling. "These missions," he begins slowly, his voice faltering, "they're bad. You know that, you send me on them. Some of them are worse than bad, and I... Fuck, some of them, I can't sleep at night because of what I've seen. And it's getting worse. I can't even think, some days; the shit keeps spilling out of my brain like I'm having nightmares, only I'm _awake_, and nothing makes them go away, and it's about to drive me fucking crazy..."

He frowns. "Are you asking me to relieve you of duty? I don't see why you couldn't have asked that in the office..."

A loud snort; Fullmetal shakes his head violently. "No. I know as well as you that there isn't anyone else who can do what I do." He says it simply, without boasting. "An' I don't want anyone thinking I'm losing it, don't want to jeopardize my standing. I need that funding, and access to the Library. I've just got to hold it together."

He understands the look now, that he saw in the train station. It's the same one he's seen on countless soldiers, that he sees in his own eyes on the bad nights. Mustang shifts, brow furrowing as he regards the young alchemist. "Well, I don't know what you expect of me, Fullmetal, or why the great need for secrecy. There are plenty of counselors in Central who can help you better than I could."

Edward rolls his eyes, eloquently expressing his opinion of the counselors. "Fuck that," he sniffs. "Overpaid lapdogs... what the hell do they know about trying to fix a man who's been transmuted halfway into a stone altar for the sake of some fucking god that doesn't exist, or little kids who've had their guts ripped out for _science_?" He hisses the last word like it's foul, and the Colonel knows how much it costs him to disparage his personal religion. "Have they seen what's left over, after a human transmutation fails? They don't have a goddamn thing in their arsenal to help me, and don't fucking try to tell me they do!"

Edward's sitting up now, body taut like he's ready to spring, his voice not the usual angry rasp, but something almost bestial. The unalloyed fury in it plucks at the Colonel's instincts, as though signaling an imminent attack and he leans back, resisting the urge to slide his hands into his gloves. This is Fullmetal, he tells himself, he's not insane, he's just breaking down, and why not? Only eighteen, and the things he's already seen... "Why the secrecy, Edward?" he demands. "If you needed help this badly, why didn't you just ask, instead of making some obscure code and hoping I'd crack it eventually?"

He stares straight at the angry blaze of Fullmetal's eyes, and surprisingly, the young man looks away first. He hunches his shoulders, gloved fingers picking distractedly at a loose string on the duvet, and when Fullmetal meets his eyes again there's a calm decisiveness in them that wasn't present before. "One time, before he died," he begins, his voice oddly calm and quiet, "I talked to Lieutenant Hughes about this kind of stress. I think he was trying to warn me about what could happen; shit, I thought he was nuts at the time, what the fuck did I know? He'd seen enough shit like this, plenty of people who'd seen bad things..."

"Ishval," Mustang breathes before he can stop himself, and Edward nods.

"We talked some about how people handled it... and how some didn't. He told me how some of the men coped with what they saw, and the things they had to do..."

"The point, Edward?" Mustang is growing unaccountably more nervous by the second, anticipation fraying his nerves. "I know about Ishval. I was there with Maes."

Fullmetal gives him a furious look. "I know that, bastard. That's why it had to be you."

"_What_ had to be me?" His hand is inches from the pocket, muscles already tensing in his fingers, and he forces himself to stillness.

Edward's face hardens, and Mustang thinks, _here it comes_, and his body is ready to move, to dodge whatever is coming, but _not_ the gloves, he won't burn anyone here...

Shoulders squared, hands on the bed. Face burning like a white flame, despite the dreadful contusion marring the skin. Fullmetal stares through him with those odd, wild gold eyes, and draws a deep breath. "I want you to fuck me."

Silence stretches so thin in the room that Mustang is certain he can hear the lilt of voices, two floors away. Everything in the room seems to be picked out in surrealistic detail; the rough pattern on the duvet, the crusts of blood along Edward's jaw, his black bag still slumped beside the door. He wants to laugh, but he can't seem to draw the air into his lungs to do so. Edward watches him, an unrelenting stare that is absolutely determined and sober, and he has to wonder which of them is truly going mad.

His face is still frozen, but he's able to stand jerkily. "I'm leaving," he states, but he hasn't taken a step toward the door when Edward spits a harsh oath.

"You fucking asshole... I trusted you with this shit, and now you're gonna walk out on me?"

"You may need help, but forgive me if I don't see the connection between having sex with you and repairing your fractured psyche. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm a _man_, who is interested in _women_." He stares down at the alchemist. "This is entirely inappropriate."

Edward surges to his feet, all evidence of exhaustion erased by his anger. Hammering the Colonel in the chest with a hard automail finger, he shouts, "You owe me! If it weren't for you, sending me on these fucked up missions, I'd still be able to sleep at night! All I'm asking-"

"Those 'fucked up missions' are part and parcel of your job, Fullmetal!" he growls back, his own temper rising. "I don't recall forcing you to certify."

"Never said you did. But it's _me_ out in the field instead of you, dealing with all the shit that comes across your desk." He's breathing heavily now, bangs falling down into his eyes. "Face it, Colonel. I'm the best goddamn tool in your box, and you use me mercilessly. And it's _breaking_ me."

"And how do you get from that to _sex_? With _me_- why not find some agreeable young lady, and take care of it that way?" The look in Fullmetal's eyes is making Mustang nervous; it's far too old, too wise, and desperately close to a brink he knows quite intimately.

Fullmetal snorts, eyes narrowing. "I said I wanted to be _fucked, _you stupid shit, weren't you listening? I don't want to fuck someone. Besides," he adds with a grotesque grin, "once you've studied a woman's body like I have, and seen one inside and out..." He nods at the involuntarily look of horror that crosses the Colonel's face. "Yeah. They don't do so much for me."

Taking a step back, Mustang glares at him. "You still haven't explained how you figure sex is going to help you. No, wait. I don't want to know. I'm leaving."

He's almost to the door when Edward says, in a very different voice. "Do you know what scares me the most?"

He should ignore it. He should pick up his bag, walk out of the hotel, back to the train station and wait for the next train heading to Central. But the look he saw in Edward's eyes earlier- that familiar, yawning chasm- makes him pause. He doesn't say anything, nor turn around, but he knows that Fullmetal is watching him.

A shuffle of uneven feet on the floor. "What scares me is that if I can't keep it together, someone is going to die. I'm not worried about it being me- well, okay, I am, but only for Al's sake- but if I... if I killed someone... someone innocent, or... Shit, I don't know. It's getting harder to stay focused, and I'm always ready to explode, and it's so _easy_, I don't even have to draw an array..."

Edward's voice trails out, and the harsh silence is back again. And he knows he should move, he ought to get back to Central and schedule a counselor to evaluate Fullmetal as soon as the young man shows his face in the city. But some frightening inertia, an echo of the past, is holding him in place, making him listen as metal and flesh footsteps stalk closer to his back, aware that the moment is balanced precariously and any shift will see it fall apart in ways he can't hope to predict.

"Three things," Edward says to his back. "Hughes told me about three things that helped the men in Ishval."

He knows this list. He and Maes had discussed it, out in the desert night, while the rest of the camp took their fitful sleep.

"Religion, but that's a fucking joke. Even if I tried, God would just laugh at me."

_No god will forgive these deeds_, he'd whispered. _ I sent too many people ahead of me..._

"Alcohol. I did try that, once, but it just made things worse. A lot worse."

It had worked for him, very well. Whiskey, scotch, brandy- it didn't matter, only the burn and the forgetfulness that followed.

"And sex. With women, when they were available, but as often as not, with other men." It's strange, hearing the young man discuss it so clinically, as though the desperation of sex during war was a rational thing. As though it didn't reverberate inside Mustang's own ribs with a terrible recognition. "It didn't have to mean anything, it was just the act. A way to feel alive, to hold off the demons..."

Hot nights, the smell of death permeating the air. What else had Maes told him?

"Colonel." Rough, but calm. "You told me once that I could come to you when I need help."

That stings. Turning, Mustang looks down at his subordinate. "Help, yes- money, information, a subtle hand at Headquarters. For god's sake, if you needed assistance moving that endless pile of books you own, I'd offer. But what you're asking..." He shakes his head. "That goes beyond help. We're not caught up in a war."

"You think it's not war out there, when I go on those fucking missions?" Edward raises an eyebrow, anger flashing in his eyes. "It's the same goddamn thing, and all I want is something to make it go the fuck away for a little while."

"Have you really thought about how I fit into this?" He folds his arms across his chest defensively, more than a little frightened of how close this comes to his own history. "I mean, since you want me involved? Edward, I'm not one of those men. I'm not desperate to escape my life, and if I were, the bottle works fine for me."

Fullmetal gives him a twisted little smile. "So you're saying your hands are clean?"

A knife twists in his gut at the sure shot; his jaw clenches convulsively, but he can't deny the truth. "No," he grates. "But-"

"Tell me you can sleep through the nights, tell me fucking honestly, to my face, and I'll drop this." Stepping even closer, craning his neck to glare up into his face. "Tell me that parade of women through your bedroom isn't to make the blood go away."

Mustang stiffens, wants to pull away, _run_ away from the accusation that is all too perceptive. To admit to that is to accept that Edward is correct, and that he has every right to seek this means of escape. It's all too easy to remember his own nightmares, the endless killing fields and the inadequate solace that followed. His mind flails hopelessly as he stares down into the intense golden eyes, trying to find something to turn Fullmetal away, to keep these memories hidden and safe and, god help him, his own private sin.

"Go ahead," Edward whispers. "Tell me. I'll believe you."

His lungs freeze, heart stops. Lurches back to life with a sick, uneven pounding that rings in his ears. Large, expressive eyes are staring up into his, and they are every eye he saw in the cities he burned.

What he did...

_Oh god, Maes, the blood..._

He doesn't deserve a reprieve.

"I- I can't."

To his great surprise, Fullmetal doesn't pounce upon his weakness. He runs a hand through his pale, tousled hair, limps back to the bed and sits down heavily on the edge. Gloved hands twitch in his lap, restive and aimless, until he finally shrugs off his jacket with firm decisiveness, tossing it onto the floor. He sighs, "I'm not asking you for a fucking commitment, you know. Just sex. Won't mean a damn thing."

It's in the back of his head that he can still turn the doorknob and walk out of the room, but it's really not an option any longer. He may as well be back in Ishval now; the guns are blazing in his head, heat searing his face, crematorium ash in his hair. Something strikes his thigh and he looks down in surprise at the bottle of scotch still clutched in his hand. A humorless laugh tries to wedge its way out of his constricted throat, but he swallows it back down, all jagged edges and hard corners. Trap or no trap, he needs a drink.

"Fullmetal..." he crosses back to the bed, the young man's eyes following him as he sits at the head once again, opening the liquor bottle with a quick twist, "even if I understand what you're feeling, I still can't do this. If anyone were to know..."

"Why the hell do you think I made it so hard to figure out? Fuck, Mustang, do you think I'm stupid? You're an alchemist, even if you're a sorry excuse for one, you're used to looking at codes, and it still took you ages to figure out what I was trying to say." Edward slaps the mattress with frustration. "Do you really think some fucking gorilla in a blue uniform is gonna see it?"

"Maes would have."

Fullmetal's face tightens. "If Hughes was still alive, I might have asked _him_."

They stare at one another for a long minute, until the Colonel drops his gaze to the bottle in his hand. "Why me, Edward?" he groans, considering the scotch for a moment before taking a hefty swig. "What the hell were you thinking, asking me for _this_?"

Flushing, Fullmetal looks away. "Who else am I gonna ask?"

"A friend, some other soldier, a whore- dammit, Edward, I don't know!" Fire and screams and his tent can't hide him from the city he razed, the people he burned...

"Fuck, it's not like I'm inconspicuous! Half metal, weird yellow eyes... You think people can't put it together, who I am? I told you, I'm trying to maintain my standing, and if word got back that a State Alchemist was getting fucked by random whores... Do you want to see that on the front page? 'Fullmetal Alchemist, Carousing with Rentboys'- yeah, that'll look good, won't it?"

Mustang lets out a bark of laughter, chases it with another fiery gulp of scotch. "Oh, but it's so much better to be fucked by your superior officer. I'm sorry, Fullmetal, but no." Cannons and explosions, and oh god, make it all _stop_...

Fullmetal clenches his hands into fists, his face darkening. The Colonel is certain that he's about to burst out into another furious rant, but the word that forces its way out between clenched teeth is, "Please."

_Please, Maes. Make it go away._

It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster. His shoulders are shaking uncontrollably, something between hysterical laughter and sobs rattling in his throat. He quenches it the best way he knows, with deep draughts from the bottle until he's coughing and swearing from the burn. Insanity- he's walked straight into insanity in this room, Fullmetal's and his own; the guns are roaring, and the walls of the tent aren't going to conceal what he does in the dark...

He knows how this will end. The heat and friction, and self-loathing in the morning, and he wonders if Edward has any idea. He hazards a glance at the other man, hunched at the foot of the bed, and sees the hard set of his bloodied jaw, wild desperation in his eyes, hands fisting in the duvet. Sees the cracks threatening to yawn open, and spill out all the hideous, twisted things he's seen and been a part of, and those are the same nightmares he catches in his own reflection when it's four in the morning and he's never left the desert.

Edward is opening his mouth to speak, brows drawn together in an angry line, but as Mustang stands to shuck off his greatcoat, folding it neatly before placing it beside the bed, he closes it again without a word. The hesitation or fear that the Colonel expects to see in his eyes is absent; instead there is a frightening, hungry relief, and if he closes his eyes he can feel the echo of it rattling in his own heart.

His hands tremble as he unbuttons his blue uniform coat. Smoke and fear and why, _why_, did Edward have to bring him back to this? The blue coat drops on top of the black one, the starched white shirt following, and he's somehow sitting on the floor next to the pile, his head in his hands, his whole body _shivering_, but it's still going to happen. The pain, the fires, the bone-crushing guilt, the warmth of flesh holding madness just out of reach...

"It doesn't mean anything," Fullmetal reminds him, his voice almost a growl. "Pretend I'm someone else. Fuck, pretend I'm a woman, I don't care." Just take the pain away. Make it go away.

His own plea had been answered, on a dry, hot night. For the sake of that memory, drawn unwillingly into this squalid little room, for that short time when death and bedlam were held at bay, there's no answer he can give but yes. The thing he's sought to avoid has subtly shifted, becoming an obligation owed to a ghost, and his own damned honor.

If he deserved succor, then Edward does as well, a thousand times over.

He draws one deep breath, then another. The thrum of his heartbeat echoes the chatter of gunfire in his mind, and he was a fool to ever think he'd left that battlefield. Pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, he shoves the memories back; his helpless obedience to genocidal orders, the recollection of death at his fingertips. His eye catches on Edward's bruised face, defensive and resolved and so very hurt no matter how he tries to hide it, and in that instant there is nothing but silence in his mind.

Don't think. Don't ask why.

His boots slide easily from his feet, and he's dimly aware of Edward wriggling free of his own clothing on the other side of the bed. Military issue pants slide down his legs, the softer brush of boxers slipping after them, and he's standing naked beside the rumpled pile of clothing on the floor. The bottle of scotch is there as well, tempting him to another swallow of oblivion, and he complies without hesitation before turning back to his companion.

The sense of frantic energy has left the younger man, but its intensity remains as he clambers onto the bed, naively unashamed of his nudity. His torso is marred with half-healed bruises, the unraveling bandage on his left forearm reveals a long, shallow gash snaking toward his elbow, but the play of muscles beneath his scarred skin lends a sensual animal grace to his movements that overshadows his injuries. "C''mon," he beckons, metal fingers curling with a soft clacking sound. "Don't fucking back out now."

"No," he agrees, and sinks onto the mattress in front of the younger man, and he won't think about how strange it is to be in this situation. There's a moment of awkward silence between them, Fullmetal shifting on his knees, Mustang sitting in perfect stillness. Tension is building in Edward's bright gold eyes again, but before he can release his apprehension in a volley of obscenities the Colonel reaches up, one hand tracing tenderly along the junction of metal and flesh at his shoulder.

Fullmetal flinches, just barely, but doesn't pull away. Long, pale fingers continue their exploration; trailing cautiously across the broad chest, sliding the length of a raised collarbone, ghosting over a tensed stomach. Mustang touches him with exquisite care, each brush of fingers meant to soothe more than caress, to gentle and calm the man trembling before him. He can almost feel the savage energy thrumming beneath Edward's cool facade, and leans in close to brush his lips over the tensed line of his neck.

It's like following in the footsteps of a memory. A mirrored dance with the past. Mustang is frozen in the back seat of his mind, watching with dull anticipation as he moves through the same motions he remembers playing across his own body, sand on the wind and the taste of char on his tongue.

He doesn't stop to examine the rationality of carefully pushing Edward back onto the mattress, nor the way that his hands move across his small body with an assurance he doesn't possess. Thought has become his enemy, as it was when he was on the front lines. The military has never liked its men to think; it's a liability, and Mustang knows how to be a good soldier. And some things do not bear thinking about.

He suspects that this is one of them.

But he knows that he's not prepared for the sight of Edward, flushed and compliant beneath him, watching his every move with a sunset gaze. A flicker of something greater than mere admiration lights within him, but it's more than his mind is willing to accept at the moment. Shifting back onto his heels to hide his momentary discomfort, he asks quietly, "Do you have any oil, or lotion?"

Edward grunts. "Jacket pocket," he says, waving one arm vaguely. "Lube. But I don't care if you use it or not, just hurry _up_." His face is filled with impatience, sweat already beading on his forehead.

Mustang swings his legs over the side, fumbling through the discarded clothing until he finds the small tube. The bed shifts as he resumes his position at Edward's hip; there can be no more stalling, and he slides one palm across the flat plane of his stomach, letting it dip lower until it brushes dark gold curls and the young man's breath hitches in his chest. His eyes squeeze closed, and Mustang watches him for a moment before slipping his hand down further still, stroking flesh already aroused and tightened.

A gasp, involuntary twitch. Head thrown back, pressing into the pillow, and Edward gasps hoarsely. "Fuck, just... _Do_ it, Mustang. Don't make me..." Teeth bite hard into his lower lip, blood welling around his lips as the Colonel's hand pulls carefully along his straining length.

He plucks the flesh hand from it's grip in the sheets, placing it on his own stirring cock. "Help me," he murmurs, and Fullmetal's eyes open long enough to glare up at him before his hand picks up the rhythm. Something electric shoots through him at the touch, but the Colonel won't, _can't_ think. There's a moan catching in the back of his throat from the rough stroking, delicious pressure building at the base of his skull, and he bends forward, mouth blindly seeking Edward's lips.

A metal hand is planted on his chest, pushing him back hard. "This isn't some fucking date you're on," Fullmetal grates angrily. "Don't kiss me."

He withdraws obediently, distantly aware of something that feels like disappointment. Edward frowns, and tugs greedily at the erection in his hand, his expression a melange of emotions, and Mustang will not consider what any of it means; the sounds of war have been silenced in his mind, and he follows the young man's unspoken urging, moving in closer, one hand reaching for the lubricant.

Fullmetal hisses and arches at the first touch, and Mustang soothes him down again, letting him adjust to the feel as one finger skates the rim of muscle. "Relax," he urges, the word vibrating deep in his throat and the young man makes an incoherent sound as the digit eases in.

Stretch and press, and Edward writhes at his fingertips, growls and curses spilling from a wide open mouth. Both hands are flung over the edges of the bed, gripping the mattress with ferocious strength, and an automail leg is snaked over his calf with almost painful force. "More," Edward gasps. "Don't care if it hurts, I want..."

_Please, Maes..._

He moves the other man's hand aside, slicking himself liberally with the lube, because Fullmetal is certainly not ready, no matter what he thinks. However Mustang obeys; it's what he was trained to do, to be a good dog, snap and sit, and move out Major, there's work to be done... He follows his commands as precisely as he did in the desert, the same way that he followed Maes' gentler instructions, without question, without thought. So much less pain, when he simply does as he's told.

Still, he's careful as he eases himself down, and begins pressing in. Edward's eyes are screwed tightly shut again, his chest heaving, and he finds himself crooning soothing words, _relax_, _breathe_, though he's not certain whether the reassurances are for Fullmetal or himself. The world has compressed to this bed, the tent in his mind, and in his fevered imagination he's both the recipient of this act, as well as the one pushing into another body. His vision spins, fogs; arousal, alcohol, and long suppressed memories melting together in an unreal fugue.

When he sheathes himself fully inside the young man, Edward _screams_.

It's primal, raw, as though every terrible thing he'd ever seen is being expelled, and Mustang's eyes flare open at the sound. Startled, he moves to withdraw, but an automail leg is locked adamantly around his waist. "No!" is gritted out between clenched teeth, the demand harsh but clear. Blood smeared across lips stretched thin, eyes bright with adrenaline and anguish, and Mustang is shocked from his dissociation, frightened for the young man and far, far more aroused than he has any right to be. The shame is crushing, but distant as he stares down into the pain-contorted face. "Edward?" he whispers, holding very still and feeling the clamp of abused muscles on his sex.

"No," Fullmetal repeats, panting. His voice is hoarse and strained, deadly calm. "Fuck me."

"I don't want to hurt-"

"Don't care." The automail tightens across his spine. "Just do it."

He moves, slowly at first. Edward growls encouragement, gasping moans that aren't pleasure, but are not entirely pain either. It's the timbre of release, or exorcism, a gravely song that he sings in time to the plunging of Mustang's hips. Eyes wide open, he stares over the Colonel's shoulder, his gaze directed resolutely at the ceiling even as he shakes with the rhythm of each thrust.

Despite the bizarre circumstances and incongruous partner, despite that his mind is paralyzed and unresponsive, Mustang's body knows what to do. It sets the pace that his partner demands, making Edward gasp and cry out, eyes rolling. It strokes a cadence from the bedsprings, that their breath matches in syncopation. When a high flush lights the young man's cheeks, it shifts the angle, pressing against a place that causes Edward to arch almost convulsively, clenching him in a way that pulls a fevered groan from his own lips.

The young man shrieks again, voice cracking as warmth spills against Mustang's stomach, and shudders wrack the small frame beneath him. Gripping the young man's hips, the Colonel drives himself in harder, faster, feeling Edward opening to him, and the sensation quickly drives him over the edge as well, moaning a string of unintelligible praises or curses.

Once the tremors have passed, Mustang pulls back, out, but only far enough to free himself from Edward's body. Pushing himself up to kneel, he sways lightly in between the other man's legs, chest heaving. His heart is still racing, his body overwhelmed with sensation, but his mind is empty, feeling almost drained, and only slowly does it begin to sharpen to the scene around him.

There's blood, though not as much as he'd feared, and guilt tightens his chest as he sees it, wondering belatedly if Maes had felt the same. Edward begins to stir, levering himself up so that he rests on his elbows. His hair is mussed, wisps of it sticking haphazardly from the thick plait hanging down his back, and he aimlessly picks at it for a moment. The young man seems calmer now, his eyelids slowly drooping to half mast as he says gruffly, "Thanks."

Mustang only grunts in response, trusting neither his voice nor his opinion of events. The scotch that he's drunk on an empty stomach is muddying his thoughts, making concentration a difficult and unwelcome pursuit, and he's not even sure he wants to understand what he's feeling anyway. Sliding away from the other alchemist, he dangles his feet off the bed and decides he's steady enough to stand and make his way to the closet-sized bathroom.

Once inside he shuts the door, almost falling into the wall beside him as he fights the queasiness roiling his stomach by forcing long, slow breaths. The weight of what has transpired between himself and Edward presses down, fighting against his careful breathing until he realizes that he is gasping for air, on the verge of hyperventilating. With a great effort, he reasserts control and the stars in his vision fade, the horrible constriction around his chest easing just a bit. _Relax. Don't think. _ He passes a shaky hand over his face. _It's just sex, remember? Doesn't have to mean a thing._

_You have to get yourself together, Roy_. He can hear the words, spoken somewhere near a decade ago, as clear as though Maes were in the room. With a shuddering sigh, he pushes himself upright, operating mechanically as he hunts down a small washrag and begins running warm water in the sink. As fast as thoughts come to him, they are shunted aside; tomorrow will be quite soon enough to examine what has just happened here, and the likely fallout. He washes efficiently and, after a moment's pause, wraps a towel around his waist and then grabs another one before returning to the room.

Edward is still sprawled on the bed, where he'd left him. He looks to be half asleep already; drowsy eyes, one arm flung languidly above his head, legs still spread and bent. As the Colonel approaches, his head lolls to glance up at him lazily, pale, bloodstained bangs falling across his face. Mustang tosses him the towel, watching as it settles across the scarred chest.

"You might want to clean up," he suggests, at the lifted brow directed at him. The young man yawns widely in answer, muscles rippling as he rolls his shoulders.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbles, a soft, barely visible smile toying with the corners of his lips. The tension released from his face, he looks almost his age, as though whatever nightmares had hounded him have retreated for a time. "I feel like I could fall asleep just like this." Nonetheless, metal fingers clutch the faded blue terry, making a few half-hearted swipes along his stomach and groin, and between his legs before tossing the towel aside.

"Hey," he says after a moment, prying one sagging lid open to study the Colonel, still standing awkwardly near his pile of discarded clothing. "You gonna stay, or head back now?"

Mustang had been contemplating the same question. "I don't feel especially well," he replies after a moment, aware that it doesn't answer the question.

Though it seems to, in Edward's mind. Wriggling a bit to get more comfortable, he sighs. "Suit yourself. But I paid for it, so the bed's mine. M'not sharing."

It's not the first time he's made shift with only his clothing and boots for bedding, and Ishval is still close in his mind. Wrapping the towel a little tighter Mustang settles down quickly beside the bed, grateful for the coolness of the floor against his skin as his stomach churns miserably. Sleep; he desperately wants sleep. Tomorrow he can wonder if what he has done will have repercussions in the office, whether he'll be able to look Fullmetal in the eye, or even be capable of standing his own reflection in the mirror.

He pulls his coat closer to his chin, the rough wool scratching almost painfully against bare skin and yet when his eyes close he feels Edward instead, warm flesh and cool metal. His mind is too numb to process the sensation, but the sudden realization is enough to leave him winded. What the hell does it mean that he actually _enjoyed_ fucking Edward?

Exhausted, he lets slumber overpower the questions and drag him under.

* * *

_There are guns, and the steady boom of artillery. Heat from the desert rising up through the sand, which blows and stings and blinds, and the incessant, hateful wind which pushes it. His hands and wrists ache with the repeated motion; he hates the pain, and the coarse snapping that seems louder in his ears than the explosions. _

_Maes is there, stern, unflaggingly positive. There's blood leaking from his chest, his glasses spattered with dark stippling, and he smiles at Roy saying, it's time. Flame Alchemist._

_And the white gloved hand, stiff with pain, snaps once, and Maes is still grinning, the death rictus of a child he saw in the slums of Ishval, and holding out a hand to him whispering, please..._

_He shakes and rocks, hand held out before him, but the burning never stops, bodies are never devoured by the wicked, angry flames. He's awash in screams, the pelt of sand on hot wind, Maes grins, and a city erupts in a silent roaring conflagration. Metal bands wrap around his shoulder, pinching, shaking him and forcing his fingers to part. The touch is cold and he wants to pull from the tight grip of the automail._

_Automail? There was no automail in Ishval._

_The floor is cold against his side, and the air has a slight chill as well. He sees nothing; it's far too dark, and his eyes are screwed shut against the nightmare anyway. The automail hand on his shoulder tightens briefly, withdraws._

"_You're okay," Fullmetal slurs, voice thick with sleep. "Shut th' fuck up."_

_Mustang believes him. He sleeps._


	3. Chapter 3

Morning announces itself to the Colonel with blistering stabs of sunlight, beams that lie like brands across his cheek and forehead. The sharp pain of it pulls an unwilling groan from his throat, and he curls protectively on his side, trying to shield his head from the light.

"You awake?" Edward leans over the side of the bed, strong, deft fingers buried in the midst of wet gold hair as he weaves it into a braid. He snorts. "You look like shit."

Daring a peek over his arm, Mustang attempts a weak glare at the youthful face peering down at him, but the pounding in his temples forces him to drop his head back to the boots serving as his pillow, moaning. Taking a swallow to try and settle his heaving stomach, he mumbles, "I feel like shit. And I think," he adds in a somewhat fainter voice, "that I need to vomit."

The profanity he expects never materializes; Fullmetal quickly moves to aid him. A chilled arm slips around his waist and half-carries him into the bathroom. Strong, callused hands help him kneel in front of the toilet and then Edward withdraws, giving him privacy to empty his stomach with rattling heaves into the porcelain bowl.

Shaking, but feeling a little steadier nonetheless, he pushes himself up to lean against the small sink. Splashing his face with cold water helps restore him somewhat more, and he half-turns at the creak of the door to see Edward standing with one foot in the room. Fully dressed, hair braided, and far more alert and sharp-eyed than seems decent.

"You need food," he states without preamble. Mustang groans, and the young man simply shakes his head. "You skipped dinner, and drank a lot of that scotch. Trust me, it'll make you feel better. Lie down," he jerks a metal thumb over his shoulder, "and I'll bring something up."

He wipes his mouth carefully. "You don't have to do that."

Edward rolls his eyes. "No shit. But I'd rather you were coherent when I'm talking to you."

There is some significance to what Fullmetal is saying, but the thought of stretching out on the bed eclipses any ability he has to parse out its meaning. Edward steps out of his way as he stumbles from the bathroom, moving carefully to keep the dull pounding beginning in his head from swelling, and sinks slowly onto the mattress. "I'll be back soon," Edward tells him, though he barely hears the announcement as he slumps onto the pillow.

The sound of the door closing makes him wince, but his muscles are already relaxing, grateful for the softness beneath him. Closing his eyes, the Colonel tugs the sheet up, noticing as he does so the scent of Edward still clinging to them, and below that, the fainter aromas of sex. With the smells come memory, and thoughts from the night before immediately begin clamoring for his attention and he cannot turn away, no matter how his head aches.

Replaying his memories of the night before, as well as this morning, he realizes that Fullmetal has been acting calmer than he's been in quite some time. Whatever other fallout there may be from their activities, it would seem that Edward was correct about what he needed, nor would it appear that he has any regrets over who he chose. And how frightening is it, to realize how easily the young man manipulated him into agreeing? But even as he considers that, he knows that skillful maneuvering wasn't what drew him to Fullmetal. Edward simply confronted him with truths he couldn't deny, no matter how he's tried hiding from them.

He still doesn't want to think about his time in Ishval; the things he saw, and did. He doesn't want to think about Maes. There are things he has to do now, his reasons for pushing on and not ending his life out in the desert, and he won't let himself be pulled back into the pain of the past.

He just wishes he could forget...

* * *

He must have drifted back into sleep, because when he lifts his head again, Edward is seated cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, a bag in his lap. Hearing the bed creak, the young man twists around to stare at him. "You finally woke up again."

His mouth feels fuzzy. "How long did I sleep?" he mumbles, pushing himself up to sit, the sheet pooling in his lap.

Edward shrugs, glancing at the window. "Dunno. An hour, maybe two. Here," he shoves the paper bag at the Colonel, "I brought these for you. Eat 'em or I will."

At the thought of eating, Mustang's stomach rumbles uncomfortably, but he pulls a poppyseed muffin from the bag and nibbles tentatively at the edge of it. The pastry is light and fresh, though it tastes flat in his mouth, but when his stomach doesn't immediately reject it he manages a weak smile at the younger man. "Thank you."

A dismissive flip of his hand. "Least I could do, considering it was my fault you got drunk last night."

And there it was. "Edward, about last night..."

"Yeah, about that." The intensity from earlier is back, that indefinable thing that had almost caught his attention. Fullmetal's eyes bore into his own, face still and serious. "But more importantly, I want to talk about next time."

* * *

He finally arrives at his home late in the afternoon, as the shadows of the elms lining the property filter the light in the foyer pale green. Setting the travel bag near the door, Mustang sheds his coat, barely bothering with hanging it on the rack before kicking off his boots and moving automatically toward his desk in the library.

It's a Saturday afternoon, the weekend is his own, but he can't remember ever feeling quite so out of place, at loose ends. The papers he's been looking over after hours all week don't catch his interest, nor do the stack of books he's been meaning to read when he has time. There at the corner of the desk is his black book- the one he'd intended to peruse for some evening company- only he's unable to bring himself to open it. Instead he slides it back in the top drawer where it usually rests, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin.

He ought to do something productive. There's never any lack of work, nor pleasant diversions in which he's always been happy to indulge. But in the space of twenty four hours he's found within himself something he'd thought long excised, and the discovery is more confounding than he could ever have imagined.

And Fullmetal. Why did it have to be Fullmetal?

* * *

"Yeah, I'm better now. But it won't last."

"How can you know that?" Desperately, trying so hard to convince himself that this won't happen again, that he can keep hiding from the darkness...

Edward gives him a scornful look. "Does one drinking binge chase the nightmares away forever? You think one good fuck works like that?"

He doesn't wait for a reply, knowing that none is forthcoming anyway. "I'll be able to sleep for a while, but before long you're going to have another mission for me. It's just the way it works, I get that. But if it's another fucked up scenario, and there's more of the evil shit I've had to see lately, it's going to start it all up again." Gold eyes, like searchlights peering into his soul. "If I'm gonna stay sane, I'm gonna need your help doing it."

* * *

It's getting dark before he realizes he's been sitting there for quite some time, and rises stiffly. Makes a sandwich that he eats without really tasting it, and washes it down with a cup of tea he doesn't remember brewing. Walks like a stranger through his home, as though he doesn't belong here and can't imagine how he arrived.

He pauses to study a photo upstairs, hung just outside the master bedroom. Black and white, filled with familiar faces. Riza Hawkeye, clearly little more than a teen, with her hair cropped short and the same wide brown eyes. Jean Havoc, almost unrecognizably young, hair even shorter than Riza's, his trademark cigarette dangling from his lips. Maes Hughes, glasses nearly opaque as he grins widely, arm thrown around the shoulders of a young Major Roy Mustang. His former self is smiling self consciously, unaware of the horrors in his future. Still innocent, as they all were then.

So many changes. The other alchemist was correct; he has seen all of Fullmetal's prodigious strength and relied upon it. And despite his insubordinate attitude, the young man has always come through. His reward was a full complement of horrors to equal Mustang's own, and exceeding the burdens the young man already bore. Fullmetal may have come to the State with most of his youth already stolen, but he is responsible for robbing him of what little remained. His own innocence was stripped from him in wartime, a fate he would have wished upon no one. But now he's passed the loss on to his subordinate.

His fault. And the reason he couldn't tell Edward no.

* * *

"I'll be careful. And you know what to look for now, so it won't be so hard."

The bit of muffin he's eaten is sitting like lead in the pit of his stomach, and he sets aside the remains with a grimace. "Fullmetal, I..." He lets his voice trail out, unsure of what he wants to say but frightened of the onus being placed upon him.

"Just sex," Edward reminds him, with a frown. "I won't say a goddamn word about it to anyone, not even Al."

"I... I like women, Edward. Not men."

"And I don't like _you_." With the livid bruise covering his face, the young man's grin is more devilish than usual. "But we both managed." His expression suddenly shifts, darkening.

"C'mon, Mustang. I need this. And I'll bet you do, too."

* * *

Back in the office, it's as though the events of the weekend never existed. Breda and Fuery argue over making coffee, Falman lectures, Havoc sneaks out for a cigarette and Hawkeye attempts to bury his desk beneath paperwork. He reads, signs, assesses and makes recommendations, as his staff move through the office in the coordinated dance to which they're accustomed. Fullmetal breezes in, storms out, and they only swirl about his disturbance without missing a step. It's a quiet week, and the Colonel dismisses the young man to the library until further notice, selfishly thankful that he will not be forced by Edward's presence to think about his actions in the hotel. Much to Hawkeye's approval, he loses himself in his work, moving with industrious speed to keep his thoughts from catching up.

It's the following Tuesday when the folder arrives on his desk, and the Colonel takes his time reading its contents, a frown building on his face like a thunderhead. He'd like to stuff it beneath the rest of his paperwork, pretend he didn't see it, but instead he sets it on his blotter, calling Havoc into his office and giving him instructions to summon Major Elric. The Second Lieutenant salutes and leaves, and Mustang stares at the folder as through he could burn it to ash with his gaze.

Half an hour later, the young alchemist stomps into the room, slouching before the Colonel's desk in his closest approximation of standing at attention. "What?" he growls, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expression petulant. "I'm busy."

It's distinctly strange, to be facing Fullmetal, after having seen him unclothed, touched his bare, scarred body. The memory of that night that he's been suppressing wells up with surprising force- the smooth brush of skin, hips that arched into his, the smell of musk and oil and sex... He closes his eyes, forcing it away. Lets his professional persona move to the fore, the masking smirk rising to his lips without effort.

"That's a shame." He pushes the folder across the desk, motioning for Fullmetal to take it. "I hope that whatever it is can wait. You'll need to be on a train by this evening."

Edward skims over the material, anger, impatience and resignation all vying for precedence on his face. "This is halfway to Briggs. I'm gonna freeze my ass off."

"So long as you can still deliver your report, that will be acceptable."

Gold eyes meet his with a cool, appraising stare, and the Colonel has to force himself to gaze back into them, glimpsing a crack in the facade, a hint of the familiar darkness. But Edward blinks, and it's gone, so completely that he wonders if he truly saw anything, or if his imagination had inferred something that didn't exist. Projection, he thinks, and again has to fight to keep his face still.

Closing the folder with a put-upon sigh, Fullmetal tucks it under his arm and glares across the desk. "Fine, whatever. Are we done?"

Mustang nods. "Dismissed, Fullmetal." The young man turns smartly, red coat flapping about his legs, and some impulse makes him raise his voice again as Edward reaches for the door. "Oh, and Fullmetal? Be careful."

The well-intentioned words seem to hit a nerve. Edward's shoulders tighten, and he tosses a look of contempt over his shoulder at the Colonel, not even deigning to reply as he stalks from the office. But he doesn't slam the door behind him, and as it closes with a soft click Mustang wonders if he's reading too much into that.

With Fullmetal away on his mission, he ought to be able to relax. There are few, if any, surprises in his office; the wild card has been removed from the deck, and he should be enjoying the quiet. But he can't. Even as he signs the papers Lieutenant Hawkeye brings him, as he makes the necessary orders and decisions, a part of his mind is flung to the north. Wondering if Edward is facing his demons again. Praying that he isn't.

Dreading his return.

He catches himself wondering if there is any way he can delay or avoid another liaison with Fullmetal. Spends hours daydreaming, trying to come up with a way to wrest control back from this situation that has spun so wildly awry. Sex... it's bizarre, and uncomfortable to think of doing such things with the young man again, but what makes his mouth go dry are the flashbacks that still haunt him since the incident. Comfort he can give, but to once again take up residence with his own terrors is more than he thinks he can endure.

But in less than two weeks, Edward is back. The Colonel wants to wince at the familiar sound of the young man entering the outer office, but he holds himself steady as the blond head pokes through the door.

"You busy? Oh wait, forgot who I'm talking to. Here," a sheaf of papers is flung unceremoniously onto the desk, "and if it isn't clear enough, I'll be in the library with Al, so too bad."

"Hold on a moment, Fullmetal." He reaches across the desk, picking up the messy report and shuffles it back into a neat pile. Makes a show of skimming it over, page by page, and he doesn't dare to let go of the relieved sigh held tight in his chest when he reaches the end without finding a train schedule. This mission must not have been so terrible, after all. Desperately grateful, he waves the other alchemist away with a magnanimous gesture. "Go, then. Report back in five days; I'm expecting more work to come through by then."

Edward rolls his eyes, as though severely taxed by this, but says nothing more as he departs. Mustang watches him go, hand drifting to cover the report he barely read. He'll still have to study the report in full, analyze what Fullmetal uncovered, possibly run the usual damage control from the side effects of the hellion Major's style of investigation. For now, however, he feels lighter knowing that there will be no need to follow through on his promise. At least, not this time.

He starts to study the missions more carefully, sending other alchemists and soldiers in where once he would have assigned Fullmetal without a thought. Part of him scoffs at his weakness, allowing his personal feelings to affect his professional judgments, but the Colonel rationalizes that Edward's breakdown resulted from being depended upon overmuch. Perhaps a respite from such travails will heal the wounds that led the young man to seek him out.

But it can't last forever. Before long, he can't evade the necessity of assigning Fullmetal a more dangerous mission. He's sent south, and it's three months before the young alchemist arrives back in Central. Without even seeing his subordinate, Mustang knows that this one was bad. Through his network of informants he has already heard about the psychopath whom Edward was sent after, and his penchant for taking hostages. He knows about the attempt on Al's life, which would have been successful had he possessed a living body; he knows about the three villagers who disappeared during the course of the investigation. He heard about deaths, and the destruction of the village market, and he knows that Fullmetal has been forced to delay his return by two weeks because of an illness he contracted at the madman's lab.

His bag is already packed when Fullmetal slouches into the office, looking peaked and worn, and drops his report on his desk without a word. Cream paper, scrawled in a nearly illegible hand, brown smears on the edges, and Mustang doesn't even want to speculate on the cause of those stains. The hopes he hadn't been willing to admit to himself dissipate as he flips the top page, and sees the familiar lines and numbers of a train schedule. His expression doesn't change but the exhausted alchemist pauses, eyeing him expectantly, and Mustang shoos him off.

"Get some sleep, Fullmetal," he tells him, and Edward shakes his head.

"Can't, even when I try," he mutters without his usual spark, and stumbles heavy-footed from the room.

Mustang sighs, then calls Hawkeye from the outer office to tell her that he plans to leave early today.


	4. Chapter 4

The town is Estmont, about an hour and a half from Central. A small, bustling town that Mustang is somewhat familiar with, though it's been quite a while since he's had any business there. This time, knowing the purpose of his trip, he changes from his uniform to civilian garb before boarding, intentionally taking one of the earlier trains indicated, next to a wobbling line of insults (_hate you, I hate you bastard, sending me out here..._), and the sky is still warm with the glow of the setting sun when he arrives at the station.

He'd been tempted to travel on one of the later options, but it would only postpone the inevitable. And considering Edward's physical state, he can see no kindness in making him wait pointless hours on a bench, watching trains rumble in and out. Besides, he thinks as he steps from the train and sees Fullmetal's eyebrows shoot up with surprise, he wouldn't want to become too predictable.

The Colonel walks over to meet the young man, still draped across the bench in his dirty red coat. As he approaches, Edward gives him an odd, weary stare. "Miss me so much?" he drawls, gold eyes dull and flat, and even his humor sounds forced.

"How could I pass up something so appealing?" he replies in the same tone, gesturing at the bedraggled young man, and Edward huffs with wry amusement.

"Fucking bastard. " He straightens with a quickly suppressed groan, left leg stretched out before him. "Shit, I ache everywhere." He levers himself to his feet, swaying a bit and waving away the hand Mustang extends to him. "No, just gimme a minute. Leg's not working right."

"Why didn't you go to your mechanic before you came back?" The Colonel asks, and the look Edward gives him is bleak.

"I'm not gonna go there like this."

Mustang wants to reach out and steady Fullmetal, who seems about to topple over, but knows the gesture wouldn't be accepted. "I'm sure she's seen worse."

Edward glances away. "That's not what I mean," he answers, and then shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

He wavers for another moment, then stumbles forward, leading the way into town, Mustang striding unobtrusively at his shoulder, prepared to catch him if he falls. It bothers him to see how much it takes out of Fullmetal to simply walk down the street, and when he spies an open air cafe, he puts his hand on the young man's shoulder to halt him.

"I could use some dinner," he says softly. "Have you eaten?"

Edward grunts. "Not hungry."

Mustang appears to consider this, to mask his concern, for it's utterly unlike Fullmetal to ever be without his appetite. He studies the face of the young man waiting next to him, hollow eyed and pale, and makes his decision. Grasping his elbow, Mustang steers the tired alchemist toward a table. "Humor me," he insists, ready to override any protest Edward makes, but Fullmetal only mutters beneath his breath and lets the Colonel deposit him in a chair.

However, his glare is as poisonous as ever. "You're a pushy bastard, you know that?" He settles back stiffly in the chair, giving him dirty looks as the Colonel calls over a waiter and orders food for both of them. Once the server has left, Edward kicks the leg of Mustang's chair. "I told you I wasn't hungry."

Taking a sip from the glass of water the waiter had brought, Mustang gives the younger man a cool stare and disregards the comment. Edward finally glances down first, brows drawn into a sulky line, the line of his mouth angry, but he says nothing. It's simple fare, and though the Colonel hasn't much of an appetite either he still forces himself to eat. The hangover and illness of his previous night with Fullmetal is still strong in his memory, and he doesn't care to repeat it. After a few minutes Edward follows suit, nibbling at a roll and picking choice bites from the pasta dish Mustang ordered for him.

They don't talk as they eat, and Edward's plate is still mostly full when he declares himself finished. Mustang pays, and helps the young man to his feet, enduring the angry grumbling that accompanies. Arm slung casually around his shoulders, helping to support Fullmetal without really appearing to, he asks, "Where are we going?"

"Get the fuck off," Fullmetal grouses, trying to shrug him away. "I've got a room at the Bluefield Inn, it's about a block away. Move your goddamn arm!"

The Colonel ignores him. "Be sensible," he says. "You're exhausted, you can barely walk."

Fullmetal grits his teeth. "I'll be fine," he growls, and shoves at him again.

With Edward pushing and bitching, and Mustang half-hauling him down the street, they make it back to the inn. Finally succeeding in freeing himself from the older man's arm, Edward throws himself at the stairs going up the side of the building with a grim determination. He's panting by the time they reach the second floor, but he looks at though he might bite the Colonel's hand off if he tries to assist him again, so he lets it go. A quick fumble with keys; the door swings open and Mustang can feel the change that comes over everything.

This is where it becomes real.

He places his bag on the floor, just as he did the last time, waiting for the familiar rush of memory- the sand, the heat, and overwhelming fear. But it's just Fullmetal, a rickety looking bed and dresser set, a stand with a blue-edged basin of water near the bathroom door. Yellowing chintz curtains, and a patchwork rug trying to make the cheap little room homey. He's nearly frozen in disbelief, shocked at the disparity, until Edward breaks the moment.

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

For a split second he almost answers, the guns are silent. But he catches himself, unable to expose that to Fullmetal, and instead replies curtly, "Nothing." He feels the pressure building in the room, like the change in the air before a storm, and can't think of a thing to say. Stands beside the door, as Edward sits on the bed; they're both staring at one another, and it's hanging right there between them...

Once again, Edward is the first to speak. "Sit down," he tells him gruffly. And all at once Mustang can see the young man unraveling before him, the shadows deepening beneath his eyes, tension held tightly under control until now spilling loose. "Fuck, just... don't look at me like that."

He moves over to the bed, settling carefully on the edge and turns toward Fullmetal. "You want to talk about what happened this time?" he inquires carefully. "Try to work it out?"

A harsh crack of laughter splits Edward's lips, but his eyes are angry. "What, are you some kind of fucking counselor now? Shit, Mustang, I thought you had more sense than that." He rips his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, throwing it on the floor. His vest follows, as well as his black tank, and the automail gleams dully in the fading light. "Therapy's a load of crap. I want this shit driven out of me."

He leans over the far side of the bed, and when he sits up he's holding a half-empty bottle of scotch. "Here," he says, shoving it into the Colonel's hands, "you want this? It's what's left from last time."

Mustang stares down at the bottle, a strange blend of duty and disappointment mingling in his chest. "You're in a big hurry tonight," he remarks, but he opens the bottle and takes a slug. Heat rushes down his throat, a burn he can feel clear to his fingertips, and he sets the drink aside.

Edward is already working on his ridiculously tight black pants. "You would be too," he grunts, tugging at the clinging leather, "if you had this shit inside your head." Kicks them aside, mismatched hands playing at the elastic of his boxers. "Last time," he says, almost thoughtfully, "the sex made it all stop for a while. I mean, it was still there..."

"It's always there," Mustang murmurs, but Fullmetal doesn't stop.

"...but I could handle it. And I _need_ that break." The boxers drop to the floor without a sound, and Edward stretches out naked across the duvet, arms flexed above his head. "It's like I live with it, all the time now," he continues, his voice softer. "Explosions and fucking sick bastards who think everyone is a potential experiment. Shit I don't even have words for. I hate it. I fucking hate it, and I just want it to go away so I don't have to feel it inside me all the goddamn time."

He can feel the weight of the responsibility Fullmetal is placing on him, as he had not when he was the one laying it on another's shoulders. It's humbling, unsettling, and still more than a little bewildering that the young man he's always seemed to find himself at odds with would extend this degree of trust his way, and he finds himself wondering if Edward sees this arrangement in those terms. Or does the other alchemist see only the results, and not the man delivering them?

Even if Edward does not, the Colonel takes such trust seriously, though the obligation may be one he'd far rather defer. He hesitates, then picks up the bottle of scotch again, takes another drink straight from the mouth, imbibing liquid courage to assist him in taking the next step and helping the young man as he'd promised he would. Fullmetal watches him, gold eyes gleaming in the dimming light, and the scrutiny brings a strange feeling of self-consciousness he hasn't encountered in years. The smirk pulls his lips up, his familiar shield against doubts. "Undressing me with your eyes?" he quips, setting the bottle aside once again.

"Undressing you with my fucking blade, if you don't hurry up," Edward snaps in reply. "Get your clothes off, Mustang."

He remembers the last time, and how he could almost feel the desert heat on his skin as he stripped in that hotel room. This time he feels nothing, simply the slip of fabric as he removes shirt and slacks, undershirt and boxers, and when he is bare Mustang wants nothing more than to pull the covers over his naked body. Stretched before him, Fullmetal gives him a sharp look, but he can't bring himself to touch the younger man. No matter his intentions, there are miles of emptiness between himself and the golden haired youth glaring at him from the pillows, and without Ishval's sharp wind at his back, the distance is insurmountable.

"Well?" Bright eyes snap with impatience, something frantic clawing behind them. "What are you waiting for?"

_Heat and flame. Explosions, and the taste of death. I'm waiting for the guns to rattle to life._

"For fuck's sake!" Edward snarls, frustrated, desperate. "Drink your goddamn scotch! What the hell do I have to do, put on a fucking skirt?"

He's frozen again, unable to reach out, and unable to reach back, to the desolation he created and the terrible pain that allowed him to put Edward's need before his own fears. He's caught in the middle; this is not Ishval, and at this moment the safety of peace is almost too much to bear. Edward thrusts the bottle into his hands, but he doesn't trust himself not to spill the liquor. "I'm sorry," he hears himself say. "I don't know..."

"Don't _know_?" The words crack across the room with whiplash sharpness. Edward pushes himself up to sit, expression dangerous, and points a accusatory finger at him. "Are you backing out?"

"No," he replies, "But this is hard, Edward."

"Wasn't too hard for you last time." He leans forward, his face close to the Colonel's. "What did you come out here for, if not for this?"

"This _is_ what I came for," he protests. "But these are hardly normal circumstances."

"_Nothing's_ fucking normal, Mustang!" Bright eyes glitter angrily, and he abruptly flops back on the bed, rolling to turn his back on the Colonel. "Fuck you. If you can't do it, just get the hell out."

"Edward..."

Sullen silence. Mustang stares at the broad back, confused and ashamed. Without the memories of Ishval coursing through him like the blood in his veins, forcing him to relive those darkest of days, he couldn't imagine laying a hand on Edward. But now, seeing him pulling in on himself, holding in all the pieces that are broken on the inside, he wonders. Is it Edward he's running from, or is it himself? Reminders from a war that nearly broke him, and turned everything he believed in on end...

In the silence, Fullmetal sighs, though he doesn't turn back. "Look, I know this is weird. It's all fucked up, and so am I, and there's no reason you should be involved. I just... I thought you'd understand. Hughes said...you... shit. It doesn't matter. Nevermind."

_It's just sex._

His hand lifts, trembling slightly. Fingertips graze the bare expanse of skin at the back of Fullmetal's neck, eliciting a shiver.

_It doesn't have to mean a damn thing._

Scooting closer, hand traveling down the curve of his back, slipping across the narrow waist. Palming the hard bone at his hip, thumb stroking the sensitive flesh that dips toward his groin. Edward groans deep in his throat, sounding almost pained, as Mustang settles behind him and rests his forehead against the cool plate of the port at Edward's shoulder.

_...just sex..._

It's awkward, halting. There's a pause, and fumbling for the tube of lubricant, and a moment where the Colonel has to stop and just _breathe_. Fullmetal rolls to face him, golden eyes half-lidded, hands surprisingly gentle as they reach between his legs to stroke him, and if he closes his eyes he can almost believe that he _wants_ to be here. That this heat between himself and Edward is more than solace or duty, and not at all connected to the unnameable horrors which brought them to this point.

His fingers coated with lube, and Fullmetal's heavy automail leg slung over his hip. Blunt fingers dig into his bicep as his own press and probe, and Edward is moaning, eyes closed, lips curled back over his teeth in an ecstatic snarl. He feels the tight ring of muscle loosening, stretching as he moves his hand in a teasing slide that makes the younger man pant out a flurry of curses, head rolling on the pillow.

What had seemed impossible earlier is now the sole purpose his mind can hold. To push himself deep inside of this body writhing at his touch, to pump and thrust until he's spent and exhausted, and he echoes Edward's sigh when he finally removes his hand.

"Now," the young man whispers. "Please..."

"Yes," Mustang answers.

* * *

He awakens in the early hours of morning, before the sun has risen, hair in his mouth, and an aching back that comes from laying too long in one position. His mind still fogged and drowsy, he runs his hand across his face, brushing aside the bothersome hairs and yawns widely. Caught between his body's desire for more rest, and the disquiet in his mind from another bad dream, he struggles to pull himself from the depths of slumber just enough to settle his unease. His eyelids are heavy, crusted with sleep, and he pries them open with some reluctance only to discover Edward's face mere inches from his own, mouth agape as he breathes out in quiet snores.

The sight startles Mustang to full awareness, though he dares not move for fear of waking his unusual bedmate. Despite how intimately he now knows the lithe, muscular body curled beside him, it seems beyond belief to be here with Edward. The young man had griped and complained when he refused to sleep on the floor again, finally relenting and scooting to the side just enough for him to lie down. They had lain back to back, distant as strangers, and the bed had grown cold between them. There was no talk; they did not touch. They may as well have been in separate rooms, and Mustang slipped into sleep almost forgetting about the naked man curled in the sheets behind him.

But he's unprepared to wake this way, with the distance between them closed, and Edward's head on his pillow. The warmth of another body next to his awakens its own brand of terror, and flight from this shared bed is the first option that occurs to him. The situation is too familiar; the purpose that calls him to this room doesn't encompass affection, only sex and relief. And to question that unspoken agreement would mean allowing his thoughts to go places he's far too uncomfortable to study up close.

He's grateful that the young alchemist still sleeps; he doesn't want to see those wide golden eyes studying him as though they can see through all his secrets. Too much control has already been lost in this situation, through Edward's easy handling of him and Ishval's shadows. A distinct line has always been marked out in his life, between the atrocities that exist in his past and all the years that remain to him, and Fullmetal belongs to the present, where Roy Mustang is in command of himself and nearly everything around him. Not slipping the border, back to the despairing, endless days of his existence in the desert.

I should stop this, he thinks. The desire to escape back to the life he'd made his own peace with, to do away with this arrangement that is threatening to irrevocably alter his own equilibrium, is almost unbearable. He closes his eyes again, his chest achingly tight. He hasn't thought of Ishval so much in years; the cancer the war left in his soul has been dormant for so long he'd thought it gone. But it is blooming again, spreading through him like poison, leeching into his dreams and even his waking hours. Time has not dulled the anguish of guilt over his crimes, and his avoidance of the memories has only served to make them all the more painful. And Fullmetal, with his own scars and fears, has become a living reminder of the things he's sought to lock away.

His heart is racing, _I can't stay, I cannot stay here, in this bed_, the need for flight building to an almost cloying panic. The bag is still beside the door; it would be easy to slip from the sheets, collect his clothes and be gone before the young man awakens. He could spare himself the image of his own desperation, cast in Edward's face, the undeniable proof of the damage he has wrought in his fellow. If he doesn't have to face those eyes, he can still pretend that Fullmetal is strong and impervious, and nothing like himself...

Next to him, Edward sighs in his sleep. A warm ankle hooks over his calf, and Mustang's eyes flare open again at the unexpected contact. Edward's face is pressed into the pillow, smooth and peaceful as it never is when he's awake, and observing him Mustang feels almost like an intruder in the scene, stealing something he has no right to claim. Remorse prickles in his stomach, and he finds he is deeply shamed by his earlier impulses.

How simple- how _cowardly_- it would be to sneak away, and pretend that his obligation to Edward has been fulfilled. He has lived the hopelessness and horror that his companion now endures, and with bleak realization he knows he cannot go. He chose his sins, followed the orders he received even as he knew they were wrong, twisted. And while he's always made sure that the orders he gave were just, they have still led this young man to the same depths of despair. And Edward never, _never_ deserved that.

"_We take care of our own," Maes said, eyes serious behind the smudged lenses. "No one else out here is going to save us."_

He has many failings. But one basic thing that's been drilled into him since he entered the Academy, since before he ever wore the first stripe or star, was to never desert a comrade in need. And even if Fullmetal draws the darkness from its hiding places in his heart, Mustang cannot abandon him. They both share these wounds of the spirit, and though it may be too late for the Colonel to be redeemed, there's still a chance for him to keep Edward from being a part of the sins he witnesses.

_I'll protect him, Maes_, he vows silently. _Just as you looked after me, I'll take care of Fullmetal. I won't let him be broken, or tainted. I won't let him be like me._

Greatly daring, he carefully touches the sleeping man's unlined face, fingertips trailing along the curve of the stubborn jaw. "I won't take any more of your innocence," he murmurs in quiet promise, resting his forehead against the crown of gold hair. A curious contentment settles over him, as though he is somehow more complete at this moment than he's been in years, and in a matter of minutes he's asleep as well, his breath whispering in tandem with the young man curled at his side.

* * *

When he wakes again, Edward is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

It's Tuesday when he receives the call at the office. Across a line crackling with static, Fullmetal gruffly explains that he and Al are in Riesembul for repairs to his automail. Even with the bad connection his voice sounds clipped and unhappy, and Mustang frowns, remembering an empty room, and a chill where warm flesh had recently lain.

"It would have been nice," he drawls quietly, choosing careful, innocuous words, "to have known where you were going before you disappeared."

There's silence from the receiver, and for a moment he wonders if Edward heard him. But an exasperated sigh hisses in his ear, and the young man's voice is cold as he snaps, "Don't think you own me, bastard." Warning and challenge ring out clear down the line, and the Colonel shakes his head, leaning back in his chair.

"I wouldn't dare to presume," he replies, keeping his own voice mild. "But as your commander, I do have a responsibility to know your whereabouts, should one of the Generals inquire. After all, you _are_ an officer."

"Fucking hell, that's not what... shit! Forget it. I'm here, I'll be back in Central by Friday. Is that good enough?"

"That will be fine, Fullmetal. Give your mechanic my regards."

"The hell I will. Go bother someone else. Bastard." The line goes dead, and Mustang chuckles as he sets the receiver back in its cradle. Edward's familiar, dramatic temper, which has so irritated the more staid military officers, serves only to lighten his spirit. Despite everything, Fullmetal will still face down anyone in his way with vigor and pure spite, and even when that anger is being hurled at him, it makes Mustang smile. It is the clearest signal of normalcy he could wish from the temperamental alchemist, and it gives him hope that the other man's trauma will soon fade.

* * *

But contrary to his hopes, when Fullmetal shows up in his office at the end of the week, his face is shadowed and grim He menaces Havoc when the Second Lieutenant tries to rib him over his appearance, and snaps at Fuery when the bespectacled man tries to stand up for him. Only Hawkeye, whom no one will willingly cross, receives grudgingly respectful treatment, which is to say that Edward barely speaks to her.

Even Alphonse seems edgy, although the Colonel can't decide if it's because something has happened, or simply due to his brother's foul temper. It seems easier to chalk it up to the latter, but Al has withstood Edward's moods for years without echoing any resonance from them. Today, instead of chatting with the office staff like he usually does, he hovers near the door shifting from foot to foot, his soft voice barely rising enough for Mustang to make out from his desk. It's worrisome behavior and he is about to address it when Fullmetal stomps into his private office, glancing over his shoulder before kicking the door shut behind him.

Mustang arches an eyebrow his way, watching as the mercurial young man settles with a flump onto the couch. Sullen anger burns in his gold eyes, tension practically pulsing from every line of his body despite the indolent slouch he affects. Heavy black boots drum an uneven tattoo against the floor; restless energy seeking an outlet, as Fullmetal glares through his bangs at the Colonel, but says nothing.

Finally, tired of the silence, Mustang leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he regards his irritable subordinate. "What is it, Fullmetal?" he inquires, letting a bit of impatience creep into his voice.

The thump of boots picks up its pace. "Al and I stopped in Pergova, on the way back. We'd heard a rumor that an alchemist lived there, a specialist in biological alchemy."

The name of the town sounds familiar, but Mustang is unable to remember why. He jots down the name of the town on the back of an envelope. "Did you have any luck locating this alchemist?" Alchemists adept at biological transmutations are rare; too much of the work borders on taboo and frankly illegal practices, but a law-abiding practitioner would be an enormous asset. From the couch Fullmetal makes a disgusted sound, drawing the Colonel's eye back to him; his face is stormy, furious.

"He's dead," Edward snarls, an odd timbre filtering through his voice, as though too many emotions to express are fighting to get free. His face reveals a similar struggle; fury, revulsion, fear, a bone-deep sorrow each surface, dissipate, and whirl in strange combination. When he speaks again, his words are almost too distorted to understand. "We were chasing someone we'd already met."

Disturbed by the depth of the younger man's emotion, the Colonel sits up straight, abandoning his nonchalant attitude. "Who was it?" he demands quietly, but not so forcefully as to draw Fullmetal's ire.

Edward avoids the Colonel's gaze, his head tilted upward. "We asked all over town, but no one knew of any alchemist living there." He grimaces, face contorting, and Mustang bites back a remark that this doesn't answer his question. "It's a small place; everybody knows everybody. I thought we'd found some bullshit lead, like the kind you're always sending us after.

"But an old woman spotted my watchchain, and struck up a conversation with us. Told us about her neighbor from about ten years back." The clomping of boots against the floor is like the patter of a racing heart. Like the rhythm of anxiety, or incipient panic. "He was an alchemist, she said, and supposed he must've been a good one too, because he joined up with the State. She didn't know much about him, but she remembered his wife, and their little daughter."

Thump, thump, thump. Fullmetal's face is twisting until the Colonel is sure it must be painful. His voice grates out his words; sandpaper and acid. "Such a sweet thing, she said. She told us she missed the girl, after the family moved away."

Edward's eyes are bitter and filled with poison as they shift back to meet Mustang's. "She said she hoped I knew him."

A horrible premonition is rising in the Colonel, but he repeats his question all the same. "Who was it?"

Fullmetal's lips curl back into a terrible sneer. "Shou Tucker," he hisses. "She asked me if I knew the nice man who used to live next door to her." Eyes wild, the gold almost swallowed by black. Sitting on the couch, feet still beating a frantic shuffle on the floor to hide the way he's shaking, and for one insane moment Mustang wants to wrap his arms around the young man, to try and shelter him from such harsh realities.

Instead, he moves slowly, speaks carefully. "What did you tell her?" he asks, leaning forward and pitching his voice to the low, soothing tones he'd used on the battlefield to shell-shocked soldiers.

The thump of boots fall silent. Fullmetal lets his head drop against the back of the couch, and stares at the ceiling. The air is thick with tension; minutes tick slowly past, and Mustang doesn't dare to say a word.

"I told her I didn't know that man," Edward finally answers.

Silence reigns for a few minutes, as the Colonel absorbs the weight of Fullmetal's words and the other alchemist continues his study of the ceiling tiles. Five years past, and Tucker's crimes still manage to haunt Edward, despite all the terrible things he's seen since. It hardly seems fair that something so simple as following the breath of a rumor should bring him to face this once more.

But even as Mustang considers this injustice, it dawns upon him that Edward deliberately chose this path. Decided not to shield himself in callous forgetfulness, never switching off like so many soldiers the Colonel has known. Edward faces every new and monstrous offense with the same outrage he'd expressed for Tucker, and that awful courage both shocks and humbles him.

Suddenly, he understands far better Edward's reasons for approaching him as he did. Mustang hangs his head, wordlessly cursing Tucker for destroying both his family, and any illusions Fullmetal might have retained about human decency.

With barely any voice at all, he murmurs, "You did the right thing."

An angry laugh wheezes up from Edward's throat. "What else was I gonna say? 'Oh yeah, your nice neighbor was actually insane. He transmuted that little girl you liked so much into a monster, and then her head was turned inside-out by _another_ madman. Thanks so much for the tea.'" He digs around in his pockets, then thrusts his fist out toward the Colonel. "Here."

Rising, he reaches out and Edward opens his hand. A small ring, topped with a single freshwater pearl drops into his palm, and he looks up at the younger man with a slight frown.

"She wanted me to ask around, see if I could find him. That," a shaking finger points at the bauble in Mustang's hand, "is for Nina. I'd put in on her grave, but your fucking military dragged her body off to some lab, no doubt, and if she's even got a grave, I don't know where. _Fuck_!" he screeches, and the pain is so evident that the Colonel can't hold back a wince. But Edward doesn't see; his face is in his hands, his shoulders trembling.

"Al's really upset," he mumbles, voice muffled through his hands. "He used to play with her, while I was reading Tucker's library, and... knowing what happened... the old woman... he's really upset," he concludes miserably, and concern overwhelms reason; Mustang lays a comforting hand on the young man's flesh shoulder, squeezing gently. For just a moment Edward relaxes into the grip, but then he stiffens, drawing back.

"Don't." The word is a quiet whisper, falling from numb lips. He lifts his head, eyes no longer angry, but cold, distant. The Colonel withdraws his hand.

Their gazes remain locked for an indefinite time, until Mustang murmurs, "Is there anything I can do?" Let me help you, he begs silently. I don't want to see you broken, not when you should be strong, indomitable...

Edward glances at the door, as though he could see through it. "Al wants to go see Mrs. Hughes," he replies slowly. "Elysia reminds him of Nina, but he says she also makes him feel better, because she's alive and loved. Nothing like...it wouldn't ever happen to her."

He's already moving back to his desk, reaching for the phone. "I'll call Gracia right away. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to have you and Alphonse stay with them for as long as you'd like."

"Not me." A tight frown is firm on his face, reining in the grief and remorse. "I don't... I can't go there tonight."

One hand rests upon the receiver; maps and streets flicker through his mind, a page of train schedules. Without pausing to think, Mustang asks casually, "Have you ever been to Cheswick? It's about as different from Pergova as I can imagine. You might appreciate a visit."

Fullmetal stares at him, half skeptical, half shocked, and a flicker of understanding moves behind his eyes. "Yeah?" he grunts as though uninterested, but one foot is tapping the floor to a different beat than before.

Cradling the phone between his shoulder and cheek, Mustang pauses. "Will Alphonse be all right by himself tonight?" he inquires softly, and watches as indecision shifts across Fullmetal's expressive face. The young man thinks hard, then pushes himself to his feet.

"I'll ask him," he replies just as quietly, moving toward the door. Glances over his shoulder at the Colonel, and he looks almost calm now. "And... thanks for calling Mrs. Hughes."

Mustang gives him a brief, unhappy smile, and dials Gracia's number.

* * *

This time he is the one who waits at the station, watching from the platform as trains rumble and steam and passengers sweep on and off of the cars. Wrapped in his black greatcoat, no longer in his military uniform, and still he feels wholly conspicuous, as though every eye in the station is on him, judging him. It's uncomfortable, especially as he has been judging himself since he arrived, and still is unable to reach a conclusion.

He isn't sure whether the other alchemist had come to the office intending to set up such a meeting, but after witnessing the turmoil of Fullmetal's emotions, the offer had been practically a reflex. Indeed, seeing him in such a state, there seemed to be no other reasonable choice for him to make. But it wasn't that he made such an overture that has unsettled Mustang so greatly. Rather, it's that he no longer finds himself reluctant to do so.

He tries not to think about it but, as he waits, watching for a red coat, golden hair, it is inescapable. No matter that it seems wrong, or perverse, his reticence toward this strange relationship he and Edward have developed has disappeared. Even worse, as he eyes the next train pulling up to the platform, he finds even some degree of anticipation making him strain forward, watchful, hopeful.

There is danger in these thoughts. But even as he tries to quash them, they spring up again; determined seedlings taking root in the detritus. He shouldn't have ever agreed to this. He couldn't have refused. Anything it takes to keep Fullmetal intact and furiously alive, he will do without question.

He can't help but wonder again which of them is losing their mind.

But the minutes spin into hours; the sun dips and sets, and the gas lamps flicker to life in the station. Night curls quietly around the platform, and Mustang watches with mounting impatience as the flow of passengers trickles to almost nothing.

The last train from Central finally pulls up, and he sits forward on the bench, stiff and eager to move. A pair of middle aged women carefully step down from their car, a young man assisting them, but he's nearly as tall as the Colonel and topped with a shock of muddy brown hair. A few cars away, a young woman with two small children is departing; she cradles the youngest, sleeping, against her breast while her solemn-looking son toddles along beside her, clutching her skirt. Mustang rises, walks the length of the platform, peering into windows for a glimpse of gold hair, a familiar, scowling face.

But Edward isn't there.

* * *

He takes a hotel room, as he'd planned, and sits in silence at the edge of the bed. Tries to relax, but his shoulders are in knots, his mind restless. He considers going out, wonders what kind of nightlife a town of this size might offer, and finds that the notion holds no appeal to him. His mind keeps returning to Edward; he wonders what happened to the young man this evening, whether he read the situation in the office wrong. Could something have prevented Fullmetal from making the train? Were the ghosts of Tucker and his chimera too much for him to handle? Surely Al would have made some effort to reach him were that the case... but no one knows where to reach him this evening.

No one but Edward.

His mind tumbles through the same thoughts over and over, a scratched phonograph hiss that won't leave him alone, and finally after a short, futile argument with himself, he goes downstairs to the public phones. Closes himself in the box, takes a deep breath and dials the number for the Hughes residence.

Gracia, as always, is gracious despite the oddity of the Colonel's call. Yes, both brothers are here, and they're fine. "In fact," she tells him with a warm lilt in her voice, "Alphonse just came downstairs. He was reading to Elysia." Her words are steeped with affection, and Mustang finds himself grateful for her ready care of the young men.

"I'm glad to hear that they're well. I appreciate you taking them in on such short notice."

He can practically feel her smile across the line. "I'm happy to do it anytime, Roy."

There's a pause, and the Colonel finds that he's not sure what else to say. Asking for Edward... no, Fullmetal is in good hands with Gracia; there's no need to speak to him. He's opening his mouth to bid her a goodnight, to return to the empty room awaiting him, but there's a clamor across the line; a raised voice, growing louder. "Is that the bas- the Colonel?" The rasping, grumpy tone of Edward's voice rings clear, even secondhand, and it's almost enough to make him smile foolishly with relief as Gracia excuses herself to hand the phone over to Fullmetal.

"What the hell do you want?" Edward snaps, but he sounds more tired than irritated.

"Just checking on you," Mustang replies mildly. "I thought you didn't want to stay there tonight."

Edward is quiet for a moment, and the Colonel thinks he can hear him pacing. "Yeah, well," the other man mumbles, "Al didn't really want to be left alone. I wasn't going to abandon him, so I stayed." His voice is pitched low by the end, and Mustang has to strain to hear him.

It shouldn't hurt him so, to hear the quiet desperation lacing those words, yet something pangs in his chest as he listens. It's typical, and generally commendable, of Edward to put Alphonse's feelings before his own, but right then he wishes that Fullmetal weren't so devoted. "Are _you_ alright?" Mustang asks with gentle emphasis, and he's clutching the receiver in a grip that's tighter than necessary as he waits for the response.

"I'll be fine." Curt and decisive, forestalling any further discussion. "I don't plan on sleeping, anyway. I'll stay up, keep Al company. He doesn't need to be by himself, thinking about all that shit."

The silence that falls between them is awkward. "Eh, Colonel," Fullmetal finally says hesitantly. "Sorry if you traveled for nothing."

The apology sounds somewhat forced, but he's thankful for it nonetheless. "Don't worry about it," he answers smoothly. "Shall I wait for you tomorrow?"

A dismissive sniff. "Nah. I'll be okay. Just didn't want to think about it tonight."

"If you need anything..."

"I won't." Fullmetal hesitates, then adds with some force, "Don't worry about me."

Mustang sighs. "Considering you asked me to help you..."

There's a growl on the other end of the line. "I mean it. I don't want your concern."

The retort stings, and the Colonel shifts, staring hard at the phone as though he could somehow see through it to Edward's face. "So I should ignore your wellbeing, until the next time you summon me?" he inquires stiffly. "Is that how this works?"

A wordless grumble emanates from the receiver, and then Edward lets out a long breath, as though striving for patience. "Dammit, that's not... just don't start acting stupid, okay? We both know what this is about. Look, I've got to go, Al's waiting for me. I'll talk to you later."

The Colonel hesitates a moment, before answering, "I understand." Cool, crisp, as though being put off means nothing. Resenting the ache that fills him nonetheless. "Goodnight, Fullmetal."

"Hey Mustang..."

He waits, saying nothing, listening to Edward's breathing on the other end of the line. There's another pause, and then Fullmetal says, "Maybe I... I mean... no. Nevermind. Sorry. I'll see you soon."

The Colonel hangs up the phone without another word.

* * *

He dreams that night of firestorms and dust devils swirling up into a flat, yellow sky, while a ragged choir of screams ululates from some indefinable point nearby. Wakes choking on terror, one hand reaching out for something to ground himself, some warmth that isn't soaked in desert sun and arterial blood. But he encounters only sweat-soaked sheets, and an empty pillow, and even when he opens his eyes the war is still raging just beyond the edges of the bed. His breath sears as he draws it in, his throat raw and painful, as though the pained cries had been his own, and his lips form shapes he cannot give voice to.

It is a long time until morning.


	6. Chapter 6

The ride back into Central seems longer than the trip out. The Colonel leans against the window, not really seeing the landscape blur past, his eyelids drooping sleepily. The rumbling clamor of the train is a comforting drone, but as soon as sleep surrounds him it becomes the boom of artillery, the nightmare he can't hold at bay, and he awakens with a start. Exhausted by his fearful vigil the night before, he settles his head in his hand, wishing for the rest he dares not take. Half-dozing, half-awake, when the conductor finally announces their arrival at Central, he's only too happy to disembark.

But even the accustomed sights and sounds of the city are jarring. He flinches at a baby's wail drifting down from a window, and can't help recoiling when a dark-skinned lad, likely from Southern, darts past him in the crowd. A street away, a car backfires, and he's scrabbling for the gloves in his pocket before sense masters his alarm. With a haunted glance over his shoulder, Mustang hunches forward and picks up his pace.

The relief that surges through him is overwhelming when he finally reaches his house, almost fumbling his keys in his haste to open the door. The comforting familiarity of home envelopes him as soon as he crosses the threshold, and his nerves cease their frantic jangling once the front door is closed and solid at his back. He strips off his coat, realizes he's sweating and frowns. Flashbacks. He doesn't want to think about Ishval; he put it behind him long ago. A shiver traces its way down his spine, and his hands itch for his gloves.

The Colonel always keeps his bar well stocked, and that is where he goes; tumbler, ice, potent amber liquor. Downs the drink in one long gulp, and pours another. It follows the first, and he makes a third. Carries it to the sofa, where he drops to the cushions, his knees gone watery and his head spinning.

It shouldn't be coming back. He doesn't want to go there again.

* * *

Sunday passes as a painful blur; hangover and unease a sour mixture in his stomach. He's not visited by bad dreams, but feels the echo of their passage in the shadows that reach across the room. In the afternoon Mustang finds himself wrapped in his robe, sitting on his back porch and clutching a cup of tea while the trees whisper overhead. The filtered light is peaceful, so different from the dark corners of his home or the harsh glare of the desert, and for what feels like the first time since arriving back in Central his heart isn't thrumming out an adrenaline-laced rhythm against his ribs. The tea is warm, sweet on his tongue, and he stares into the cup wondering if his return to the office will drive off the memories that stalk him.

He thinks of Edward, with his ferocious will and the burning anger he uses to shield himself from his own demons. Fierce, sunset eyes, and he can't help but recall the demanding, helpless edge to the young man's voice- _please- _and he'd gladly give over his rank and future for one half of that strength. Edward, begging, still manages to be mightier than any Fuhrer's command.

But now with thoughts of Edward also come the unnerving sensations that the Colonel is at a loss to control. Cool metal plates and warm, tanned skin, the soft whirr of bearings and pale scars that lie slick and pink beneath his palms; he'd never before imagined he'd picture such things at Fullmetal's name. Heat and flame, and he's seized with the irrational urge to _taste_, and the teacup drops from his fingers to shatter on the steps.

Shaken, he looks down at the shards, the brown liquid soaking into the wood. _What am I thinking?_ He clenches his eyes tightly shut, scrubs his face with the heels of his hands hard enough to draw stars to his vision through his closed lids. _I don't need this_, he thinks, desperate and a little reckless. _I don't want this_.

He leaves the broken teacup where it lies on the step, rises and returns to the den. Rifles through his desk until he locates his black book, and holds it to his chest as he eases into the chair. Flipping on the table lamp, he opens the book reverently, scanning the names and phone numbers, the oblique notations that fill the margins. Studies the pages as though they contain the remedy to his preoccupation. From time to time he glances over at the telephone, contemplating the merits of following through on such a therapy, but every name is wrong, every face too soft, too friendly, and with a snarl of frustration he lets the book fall to the blotter.

_What the hell is happening to me?_

* * *

Something of his weekend must show in his face, for as soon as he arrives in the office, the Colonel notices his staff giving him a wide berth. Even Breda, who is never above ribbing him over his appearance or excesses, gives him one look and then takes to his paperwork as though it were the most consuming pleasure of his existence. Lieutenant Hawkeye appraises him coolly, one slender eyebrow arched, then hands him a stack of papers.

"Here are the recent evaluations for promotion, sir. They'll need to be completed by this afternoon." He can feel his expression darkening, but she pays it no mind, ever the professional. "If you begin now, there should be plenty of time." She blinks at him slowly, something in her countenance softening. "I will bring your coffee, and see to it that you're not disturbed."

Solitude. That should be well enough. Mustang sighs, relaxing fractionally. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Without a glance for the rest of the staff, all watching the exchange from the corners of their eyes, he marches back into his office and shuts the door.

Slumping into the large chair behind his desk, he drops the papers into a messy pile and rubs his temples. Lack of sleep preys upon him, and his head hurts abominably. He hadn't suffered the bad dreams again, but his nerves had tuned themselves to hair-trigger awareness, every noise jolting him awake, heart racing. What rest he had gotten came only in brief snatches; minutes, maybe a half-hour, before his overstrung senses pulled him back to painful consciousness. Every fiber of him now clamors for sleep, but even as he eyes the leather sofa with longing, Mustang doubts that he could find rest here.

The door opens; Hawkeye, bearing his coffee. She brings it to the desk, setting it down and noting the untidy paperwork with a slight frown. "Are you alright, sir?"

Annoyance flares, quickly stifled. He wants to growl at her, to tell that no, he certainly isn't all right, but there's really no point. "Bad weekend," he grumbles, reaching for the coffee. "Haven't slept well in days."

"Well then," she says and pauses, as though debating with herself before continuing, "please try and complete these evaluations. As long as they're done by three, I can't imagine we'll need anything else from you today."

He gives her a bleary, grateful look over the top of his mug, and she favors him with a slight smile as she turns to leave. At the door she adds over her shoulder, "Take better care of yourself, sir. We need you at your best."

Mustang manages a ghost of his usual smirk, tossing her an exaggerated salute that she ignores as she exits, and in a somewhat better mood, picks up the first evaluation.

But hopes of an early departure vanish shortly after lunch, when orders come down from General Simmens for a meeting at two, and the Colonel swears quietly as Hawkeye delivers the news to him. Budgets again, no doubt, and his head aches at the idea of sitting through dry hours of numbers and haggling. However there's no getting around it, and he hands off the nearly completed papers to the First Lieutenant before preparing himself for what will surely be a grueling session.

It's almost six before the meeting adjourns, and the Colonel is finally free, irritable, exhausted, headache swelled until he's almost nauseous from the sickly throbbing. Thankfully the office is empty, and Mustang gathers his coat, basking in the balm of silence clinging to the rooms. A glance out the window, where a stiff wind is rippling the trees, and he decides to head for the motor pool, pull rank for once and be driven home rather than walk the few blocks in this state.

Long corridors, streaked with the early evening shadows, and blessedly free of the bustle that normally fills them. Mustang relaxes somewhat, as his boots echo dully and the promise of home looms nearer. A hot bath, a fire in the grate, and he thinks that perhaps he'll toss some blankets on the floor and just sprawl in the flickering warmth there...

"Colonel?"

That voice, almost hesitant, breaks his stride. He turns to see Fullmetal staring at him from an adjoining corridor, wide eyes looking shadowed and bruised. The snappish reply that had been on the tip of his tongue withers and dies, leaving behind an aftertaste of weary resentment. "What is it, Fullmetal?" Clipped and impersonal, and part of him feels childish for the petulant response, but damn it all, he doesn't have the strength to endure this right now.

Edward hunches his shoulders uncomfortably, hands jammed deep in this pockets. "I wanted to know if there were any leads for me. Went by the office earlier, but Hawkeye said you'd left already." He gives the Colonel a flat look, as though _he_ were the one responsible for the misinformation.

The headache pulses behind his eyes, and Mustang pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. "Fullmetal, I've been in a finance meeting for the past four hours. And if I did have a lead for you, you would know about it already. Now if you'll excuse me..."

Don't look at the lines on his face. Don't see the exhaustion pulling down on his youthful skin, darkening his molten eyes. Pay no mind to the worn expression he wears, so like your own that you ache in sympathy. Just take yourself home, sit in blankets like an old man and don't bother wasting care on someone who neither wants nor needs it.

"Hey, Colonel. You look shitty. Are you sick?"

He stiffens, but though his strides slow, he doesn't stop. "You're one to talk, Edward. Have you looked in a mirror?" Childish or not, he can't resist tossing a wry smirk over his shoulder. "I'm fine, don't bother yourself."

With that parting shot he heads once more for the motor pool, stomach cramping, head a wreck, wishing that he could at least feel the satisfaction of having the final say. As it is, all he feels is miserable.

* * *

A long, hot soak turns out to be worth every bit as much as he'd imagined. When he emerges Mustang feels much improved, if still ragged and drained. Although the tribulations of the weekend can still be felt in the corner of his mind, they are quiet for now, and he can almost pretend that nothing is, or has been amiss. Toweling his hair dry, he pads into his bedroom to pull on a pair of loose pants, then retrieves one of his ignition cloth gloves with a tight smile. Blankets and a fire, and the evening plans will be complete.

Soon he's drowsing on the sofa, letting the unsteady light from the grate dance on his eyelids, a blanket wrapped snugly around him. His headache is all but gone, and he feels more at peace than he has in what seems like ages. Since before Edward barged into his personal life, awakening the old memories, disrupting the balance he'd found...

Eyes still closed, he gives a slight shake of his head. No, Edward is on the list of things he will not think about tonight. Maybe then, he can sleep easily...

The fire's warmth is soothing, and the crack and hiss from the hearth becomes a gentle, lulling murmur. He must have nodded off, for the sudden knocking at his door makes him jerk awake, disoriented and groggy. Letting the blanket fall, he staggers upright, his body still slow to respond as he makes his way to the door. Runs a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt at looking presentable, but a glance at the hall mirror, and he gives it up as a lost cause. He looks as he feels; worn, tired, and no amount of primping will hide it. With a rueful grimace and a glib excuse ready should it be needed, he pulls open the door.

Black leather, a fall of hair like sunlight. Edward glances up through his bangs, his face shuttered and carefully empty as he offhandedly says, "Hey."

Mustang blinks at him, at a loss for what to say and completely taken aback at the young man's appearance at his home. It is not a scene that, even after their meetings in the hotels, he's ever contemplated before, and he finds himself out of sorts and somewhat resentful at the intrusion. Fullmetal frowns, and he remembers belatedly that he ought to say _something_. "What the hell are you doing here, Edward?"

Gold eyes roll, and Fullmetal tosses his head with a snort of annoyance. "Oh, _that's_ nice," he growls. "I suppose it would kill you to at least say hello before telling me to fuck off?"

"I didn't tell you to fuck off. I asked why you were here." Some dark impulse makes him smirk and add, "Subtle difference, I know, but you _are_ supposed to be a genius."

"Asshole. I needed to talk to you, why else would I be here?" Edward folds his arms tight across his chest, giving Mustang a glare so familiar that it hardly seems belligerent any longer. Or maybe he's just too tired to care.

"Fullmetal, I have office hours. I'm sure we can discuss what leads I do not have for you then."

Those bright eyes flicker with... uncertainty? "I already tried to reach you during your fucking office hours. Besides..." his feet shuffle anxiously on the porch, "this isn't about the leads."

I'm tired, Mustang wants to tell him. I'm worn to the bone, and all I want is to sleep. But...

_We take care of our own._

Damn. He closes his eyes, grasping desperately for whatever patience he still possesses. With a sigh, he steps back into the hall, holding the door open. "Come in. We can't very well discuss this on the porch."

Edward eyes the sofa and blanket as he's escorted into the den, and steers himself to a chair beside the fireplace, leaving Mustang to settle back into his nest. Firelight paints deep shadows across the younger man's face, and the Colonel can't help but notice the fatigue in it that he'd forced himself to overlook earlier. "Can't sleep?" he inquires, and Fullmetal's eyes snap back to his face.

"No," comes the grudging reply. "Not well, anyway." Edward stares down at his shoes, as though the admission costs him more than he cares to pay. "Mrs. Hughes told us to stay as long as we liked, and Al's happy there, but... fuck, it just keeps reminding me."

He cuts a sharp, almost sly glance at the Colonel. "That was some stunt you pulled," he states, "calling Mrs. Hughes to check on me."

Mustang pauses in pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, you weren't really thinking, were you? It was pretty careless."

He frowns at the other alchemist, lolling in the chair as though he belonged there. "It's hardly out of the ordinary for me to check on you, seeing as how I was the one who made the request of Gracia. And I didn't specifically ask about _you_, if that's what has you bothered." He lets the smirk out once again. "Don't think so much of yourself."

Edward curses, face reddening, and Mustang watches him with vague amusement. _This_ is the ground he's familiar with; he can feel in control with this. Fullmetal, off-balance and swearing, not a hint of weakness save for his susceptibility to the Colonel's precisely delivered taunts. He prefers this to the new Edward he's become acquainted with, not for his ability to wind him up or the subtle illusion of dominance, but because Edward is meant to be this raging force, in perpetual motion and filled with vigor. He hasn't realized until now how he hates seeing the sickness welling up inside of the younger man, eroding his strength and casting shadows where there was once only radiance. Edward isn't meant to be diminished, not when he is the brightest, the _biggest_, person Mustang has ever known.

He becomes aware that Fullmetal is no longer grouching, and is instead giving him a hard, questioning look. "What the hell are you staring at?" he growls, defensive and bristling.

Mustang only shrugs lightly, the hint of a smile curving his lips.

Edward's face abruptly darkens; he shifts in his seat, staring into the flames dancing in the grate. "You shouldn't have called," he grumbles, automail fist slowly opening and closing on the chair arm. "Just fucking shouldn't have."

Something turns over in Mustang's stomach, sour, and the smile disappears from his face. "That's right," he answers coolly, eyes narrowing. "You don't want my concern. You just want me to fuck you when it's convenient to you."

"You knew that from the start, " Edward snaps, and his face in the firelight is feral. "I never pretended otherwise."

"I've got news for you," Mustang leans forward, irritation flaring into full-blown anger, and he hasn't a mind to even try and control it. "You can't ask me to help keep you from falling apart, and then tell me I can't feel concern for you! It's not _rational_, Edward."

"I don't _want_ you to care about me!" Teeth bared, eyes wild, and looking ready to launch from the chair, Edward isn't quite shouting, but his voice echoes from the corners of the room all the same. "I don't need your pity!"

"Who said anything about pity? You're making assumptions again." Fatigue is starting to weigh him down once more; the usual thrill that runs through him when he argues with Fullmetal is notably missing tonight. "So I care about you. That's not such a terrible thing. I care about all of my friends."

There's a moments pause, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then Edward rasps a laugh, his voice bitter, but quieter."Hah! Since when are we friends?"

Mustang stares at the young alchemist, wary and aggressive where he's perched on his chair, ready to beat down anything that pricks his honor, yet it's the flicker of desperation in his eyes, the nervous flutter of pulse at his throat that fills his vision. He closes his eyes to the sight, and sighs.

"Since you trusted me enough to come to me when you needed help."

Silence. He can hear his own heartbeat pattering out its quiet rhythm, and the soft draw and release of his breath is deafening. In the grate, a log pops, and it's an explosion in the stillness of the room. Edward hasn't moved a muscle; neither a creak of the chair nor the clink of automail betrays his intentions, and Mustang waits with patience borne of years of practice; it seems like he's always waiting for something, a promotion, his plans to come to fruition, might as well add Edward to the list...

Across from him, breath hisses out. Feet shuffle against the floor, but Edward isn't leaving, and he dares to open his eyes to see the young man staring into the flames once more, face awash in the glow.

"...Doesn't mean I like you," Fullmetal mumbles sulkily.

Resisting the urge to sigh again, Mustang stands, letting the blanket hang from his shoulders as he crosses the short distance separating them. He hesitates only a moment before reaching out and cupping Fullmetal's chin in his palm, gently pulling the other man to face him. But Edward only allows a half-turn of his head, staring suspiciously up at the Colonel through the corner of his eyes.

"Is it really so hard," he asks in a low voice, "for you to accept compassion from others?" The fingers holding that stubborn jaw curl, caressing, and Edward resists for a few seconds before finally giving in, letting his eyes flutter closed as he relaxes beneath Mustang's touch. The pad of his thumb brushes across warm skin, and the Colonel recalls how Fullmetal had recoiled in the office only days before, unwilling to allow contact, obdurately holding onto his pain, and how can he stand to be so alone? Studying that proud face he suddenly wants to _show_ Fullmetal that he doesn't have to hold himself apart, and this time doesn't hesitate at all before sinking to his knees, leaning forward to drift slow kisses along the tense line of Edward's neck.

Wood groans as metal digits lock onto the chair arm, but other than that Edward doesn't move, barely breathes. Mustang's lips trace down the tendon until they meet fabric, and then warm fingers are tangling in his hair, pulling him back. Edward looks down at him, silent and unreadable, then grasps the hem of his shirt, slipping it over his head and letting it drop beside the chair. Tugging Mustang's head forward once again, a whisper of a moan teases up from his chest as the Colonel's mouth closes on his shoulder, sucking lightly.

Touching that fire-gilt skin, tongue leaving glistening trails across scar and muscle; it's as though the weight of the weekend is lifted, delivering Mustang from traces of the past and the uncomfortable present. His hands, palm-flat against jutting wings of shoulderbone, salt and iron tingling on his tongue, listening to the shuddering gasps that Edward makes; it's the only thing that seems to have made sense since the previous week. For a moment he forgets that he does these things for Edward's benefit, and loses himself in the taste, the feel, the warmth pressing against him...

"Jus'..." Edward hisses, as teeth graze his chest. "Jus' don't make it personal, okay?" Gold eyes, glazed and intense, stare down at him, and behind the steel of the words Mustang can hear a note of pleading. "Promise that."

"How is it not personal already?" the Colonel murmurs, and his skin is crying out for Edward's body, for the beautiful oblivion of being lost amidst that brightness.

Metal fists in the blanket, pulling his face closer, and the young man growls, "Promise!" Urgent, needing, and even as his hips rock forward into the Colonel's chest, he knows that Fullmetal will flee if he doesn't say the word. He looks up into Edward's flushed, handsome face, and thinks, _how did I imagine I could deny you anything?_

"Promise," he husks, the word cutting like sawgrass in his throat, and those bright eyes sag shut, hand relaxing its grip. With boneless fluidity Edward slides from the chair, practically into his lap, mouth moving tentatively against the Colonel's neck and anything resembling rational thought perishes within him.

There's a mad scramble to undress, and it's only sheer luck that keeps any clothing from ending up in the fire. Connected skin to skin, from shoulder to ankle, and the only thing Mustang finds odd anymore is that he's never kissed Edward's mouth. Those thin lips are half-parted, panting against his shoulder as their hips grind together, a constant stream of curses and incoherent pleading spilling from them; before he thinks his head is tilting, angling to capture them. But Edward draws his head back, a look of mingled anger and panic flooding his eyes.

"Not that," he grates out, arching against the lean body covering his in a way that makes it almost impossible for the Colonel to think. He knows diversion when he sees it, but Edward's forceful grinding is a most thrilling distraction, and one to which he willingly abandons himself.

Greedy and desperate, and there will be bruises on knees and backs in the morning, but he's helpless to care, caught in the inevitable gravity of Edward. Pulled down and in, and Edward moans, fingers scrabbling at his back, eyes clamped shut. Pressing and fading, Mustang moves within him and keeps his own eyes open, memorizing the image of the golden youth beneath him. His hips rise and fall to a rhythm he can't control or contain and Edward doesn't fight him, but cries out a long, broken note, writhing and pulling Mustang deeper.

He's losing his mind, everything fragmenting into shards of firelight and gold. One hand slides blindly along a sleek flank, grasps the arch of a hipbone. A gasp tears from Edward's throat as Mustang's hand finds his firm length, stroking until the other man shakes around him, voice gone high and thin. Then there is warmth and wet, and stars explode behind his eyes as he's drawn down once again, forehead to the broad, scarred chest, the breath squeezed from his lungs and he's tremblingand weak, but this madness makes sense...

And Edward breathes, shifting, reminding him that he's heavy and pinning the smaller man to the floor, and Mustang rolls beside him, one arm still draped across the slender waist. Fullmetal's cheeks are dusky with the flush of arousal, the arresting gold of his eyes shuttered, but aside from his chest still heaving with each panting breath he's as still as death, splayed and silent.

"_I'm so tired..._"

It's scarcely a whisper, and the Colonel lifts his head in surprise, wondering whether Fullmetal even meant to speak aloud. Eyes still closed, hair falling from its plait; Edward looks vulnerable and broken and it's cruelly unfair to ask him _not_ to care about this.

The Colonel nuzzles gently at his neck, stirring him from his repose. "If you're tired," he tells him, "I can take you upstairs to a bed."

Gold eyes flare open, dazed but cautious. "I don't-"

"I'm offering you a bed, Fullmetal," the Colonel interrupts, not wanting to hear the walls coming back up. "It's a place to sleep, not a proposal."

"I..." The fight goes out of his eyes, and he lets out a sigh, eyelids drooping closed again. "Okay."

* * *

He leads the younger man up the stairs, down the hall to the master bedroom. Edward looks askance at the wide bed, but crawls in without saying a word. Curls in a tight ball on one side, and is asleep before the Colonel has settled beneath the sheets beside him.

It's hard to look at Edward's still form next to him, and Mustang wonders when he will ever feel anything but conflicted over this arrangement. Certainly there was enough enthusiasm when he took the other man on the floor in front of his fireplace, but there is nothing like normality in the rest of their dealings. They can barely even have a civil conversation and yet here he is, by Mustang's own invitation, in his bed. Where his other lovers have teased, or pleaded for his attentions, Edward holds him at arms length, forbidding any encroachment upon his heart.

He finds it worrying that Edward so resolutely evades anything that resembles an emotional attachment. The young man is not without a tremendous capacity for love; anyone who has seen his devotion to Alphonse can't deny that fact. But his aloofness confounds the Colonel. When did Fullmetal ever need to protect himself in such a manner, as though simple affection could do him harm?

A surge of tenderness catches him unawares at the thought, and he realizes too late that this isn't a single moment of sympathy. It's a rip current, fast and dangerous, and damn it, despite everything else, this isn't what he wanted. Pulled out of his depth, beyond reason, and he _promised_...

Promised Edward he wouldn't care. Promised himself that he would.

This was supposed to be a simple arrangement; a release, an escape, nothing more. How could it possibly have become so complicated?

He could almost laugh, were it not himself caught in this tangle. Nothing that involves Fullmetal is ever simple. He sighs quietly, draws in closer to Edward's warmth and resolves not to think of it any more this evening. So much easier to set it aside, like Ishval, like his guilt... After a moments contemplation, he carefully settles an arm around the sleeping man, hand resting against the sturdy cage of ribs. Beneath his palm, Edward's heartbeat thumps an even rhythm, steady and soothing.


	7. Chapter 7

It's an intermittent tinny jangle, annoying as an insect, and Mustang just wishes it would go away. Suspended in the hazy dimness between sleep and wakefulness, he tries to pretend he can't hear it, but it continues its persistent assault on his consciousness, demanding, ringing...

Ringing. Telephone.

His eyes fly open as the realization strikes, and at that moment he takes in the unusual brightness of his room. Even with the blinds drawn the walls are lit by a soft yellow glow, and beyond the window he can hear a cacophony of birds. A quick glance to his side finds only rumpled sheets, the warmth that had collected already fled along with the body that had lain there. Edward is gone.

He rises hurriedly, noting as he does so that against all expectations he feels well. Not merely well, but rested, rejuvenated, as though the days of broken sleep had never happened. It's more than he would expect of one night without dreams, but he doesn't have the time to study the feeling. Reaching for the insistent phone, already anticipating who's calling, he answers with a curt, "Mustang."

"Sir." Hawkeyes's voice is disapproving. "It's past ten. Are you ill?"

Past _ten_? He glances at his clock to confirm, barely stifling a curse as he sees it's not only past ten, but pushing eleven. "No, Lieutenant," he makes himself reply. "I overslept."

The excuse isn't going to cut much slack with her. He can feel her displeasure radiating down the line as she answers, "When shall we expect you in, sir? There's work waiting for you, and Edward..."

"Fullmetal?" he snaps, sharper than he intended. "What about Fullmetal?"

"He's been waiting, sir, since nine. He wants to discuss his next mission with you."

"His next..." His eyes rove across the bed again; mussed sheets, and pillow still bearing the imprint of Edward's head. "That sneaky little..."

"Sir?"

"Nevermind, Lieutenant. I'll be there in an hour."

"Don't be late, sir."

He hangs up, half angry, half amused, So Edward is already at the office? After creeping out of the house at god knows what hour, probably already planning to show him up, the arrogant brat... And wanting another mission, on top of that. The Colonel's lips thin to a predatory smile, and as he prepares himself for the office he daydreams of sending Fullmetal to the most remote, backwater village he can find, to study manure sheds. With reports to be filed in triplicate.

Forty seven minutes later he strides into his office as though he weren't over two hours late, giving Hawkeye his most charming grin; ignored, as he knew it would be. Her hand stays away from her holster, however, and the Colonel is grateful for that. Although he's fairly certain she wouldn't shoot him over a few missed hours, it's better not to tempt her tolerance too much.

"Here you are, sir," she says, shoving a ream of papers into his chest. "These need to be turned over to General Hakuro by the end of the day. And these," more paperwork is piled atop the stack he's fumbling, "will need to be assessed, and returned to Intelligence."

"Tomorrow?" he asks hopefully.

"Before you leave. Sir," comes the bland reply.

Mustang sighs, and shuffles the papers into better organization. "And Fullmetal?" he inquires, willing her to tell him that the young man has left already. But no such luck; she purses her lips, nodding toward his office. Of course.

When he opens the door, Edward is sprawled across the sofa, clunky boots propped on one armrest while he holds a book open on his chest, reading, his other arm tucked behind his head. At the Colonel's entrance, the young man looks up smirking.

"Took you fuckin' long enough," he grins, closing the book and swinging his legs down so that he can sit upright. "I mean, I knew you were a lazy bastard, but shit..."

"What is it, Fullmetal?" Mustang cuts across the snickered insults, setting his paperwork on the desk as he pulls out the chair. "Shall I assume you're here simply to badger me, or is there some reason you're treating my office as a break room?"

Blond bangs flutter as Edward gives an indignant snort. "You _said_ to come talk to you about my missions during office hours, so I did. S'not _my_ fault you can't make it in on time."

Mustang lets the paper in his hand drop back onto the pile, turning to fix Edward with a flat stare. The young man blinks, the implications of what he just said visibly sinking in, and a heated flush rises on his cheeks. For a moment or two he fumbles for words, finally settling on sinking back onto the sofa, arms crossed over his chest and glaring daggers at the other man. The Colonel nods, satisfied, and turns his attention back to his paperwork.

"I want a mission," Fullmetal snaps, once the accusatory gaze is gone. "You haven't had a decent lead for me in months, and I'm getting sick of it. I want something I can use."

"What would you like me to do? Pull something out of a hat?" The Colonel frowns, more at the mess of a report before him than the conversation. "I had assumed that you wanted leads that could amount to something, rather than being sent from one province to the next just because you're frustrated."

"I _do_ want good leads. Not that you give me many of those anyway." Out of the corner of his eye Mustang can see Edward wriggling with excess energy on the couch, and has to restrain himself from staring. "The library's not enough. We can't learn everything here. And there's stuff we've run into by accident on missions that's been really helpful."

Slash off a signature, set the page aside. "Fullmetal," he sighs, taking up the next sheet, "I'd rather not squander your talents where they're not needed. And weren't you the one who came to me with concerns about your missions?" He glances toward the couch, arching an eyebrow, and receives a sullen stare in response. Legs kicked out in front of him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw set with determination; Edward is a portrait of immobility, looking ready to wait out any resistance. And Mustang has no doubts that he intends to do that precisely.

He doesn't have time for this. Putting down his pen, he swivels to meet Fullmetal's gaze head-on. "Fine. I'll see what I can do. But I make no promises, and whatever the job turns out to be, it's on your own head. I don't want to hear any complaints when it's not what you wanted."

"Great." The young man bounces to his feet, grinning dangerously. "You're not such a bastard when you're being reasonable, you know?"

"Well, I've plenty of practice at being the bigger man," he replies silkily, and chuckles at Fullmetal's impressive flailing and shouting as he storms from the room. Some things never change.

Except himself, apparently. Humor ebbs away, replaced with anger at being persuaded though he's not sure if it stems from a sense of manipulation, or because he wants to protect Edward from the potential dangers of the field. Neither is acceptable in a commander, but the mere fact that his objectivity is slipping where Edward is concerned is enough to set off warnings within him. He cannot afford for his decisions to be skewed by what he feels for the mercurial young alchemist.

What he feels...

"I don't feel anything," he growls under his breath, clutching his pen almost hard enough to break it. "I don't." He forces himself to relax his grip, then leans back and pulls open the lower drawer on his desk, flipping through folders until he finds the form he's looking for. Setting it atop the paper he'd been reading, he only hesitates a moment before filling it out with decisive strokes. "I just need to clear my head."

Pertinent details to be added later; destination, expenses. He'll speak to Breda, find out if there have been any disturbances that might merit attention. But he signs his name at the bottom with a flourish, giving Fullmetal leave to move on assignment again.

There. Edward will be gone for at least a week. That should clear his head nicely.

Too bad he doesn't believe his own bullshit.

Three months, and five more assignments. Two sets of train schedules.

Edward returns from two weeks near the border of Drachma, having learned nothing on his excursion but how the Drachmans treat spies. He met his contact in the arranged place, the man bound to a tree, blood frozen in a crystalline ruby spill from his throat down his chest, and even in the short time he'd hung there the animals had made inroads on his belly. Fullmetal was lucky to escape the ambush that waited, and the Colonel thanks a god he doesn't believe in that Alphonse was with his brother on this mission. Shielding his brother with his armored body, the younger Elric kept Fullmetal safe (as it seems the Colonel never can) from a vicious hail of gunfire. And, Edward was quick to point out back in Central, Al had the dents and damage to prove it, so why the _fuck _isn't he on the goddamn payroll if he's putting his ass on the line?

Clarridge, that time, and Edward moans against his throat, clawing at him as though he can't get enough. After, his face pressed to Mustang's shoulder, he whimpers, "Al, Al..." and Mustang's heart tries to twist sideways from his chest. Edward is still in his arms in the morning, and neither one of them comments on that.

Riots in the south follow, and this time Fullmetal isn't the only one sent to get a handle on them. He's seen Lior; he knows what can happen when mob mentality takes over. The Colonel thought this would shield him from the ugliness of the situation. What he didn't know was Fullmetal's ignorance of the common brutality of soldiers, and of the disease that can take over their minds when they're flush with power. This time the atrocities come from the men in blue; Edward stops one of the rapes personally, and Alphonse can barely restrain his enraged brother from beating the offending soldier to unconsciousness.

He receives a commendation for the act, and a reprimand. Alphonse complains that it's ironic and unfair. Fullmetal doesn't say anything at all.

But in Lunsford he bites his fist until it bleeds, dark, sullen drops welling around white teeth. The Colonel pulls his hand from his mouth, kissing the bloodied knuckles tenderly even as his stomach clenches with shock. Fullmetal's eyes are dull, resentful, his body taut as Mustang whispers _we don't have to do this, you know_, but he grips the Colonel's shoulders, refusing to let him leave. It is awkward and they never find their rhythm, and he's afraid that despite trying to be gentle he still hurt Edward. When it's over, the young man growls, "You're staying," as though there is no room for discussion, and Mustang supposes he's right.

When he awakens Edward is already alert at his side, staring up at the ceiling. His brow is furrowed, and the relief that usually paints his features the morning after sex is notably absent. He appears muted, like the fog of his nightmares never quite lifted, and the Colonel can't stand to see him so eclipsed. Tired gold eyes turn to meet his with a silent appeal, and as always he's helpless before that pain. This time they move as though synchronized on some deeper level, bodies melding together effortlessly, and the climax that finally shudders through Mustang's body is almost crippling in its intensity.

He lies next to Edward in the sweat-soaked sheets, feeling weak and somewhat giddy, aware that this has probably been the best sex he's ever had. Still floating on the post-coital high, an idiotic grin curling his lips, he's on the verge of confessing the accolade to his partner when he recalls the expression Fullmetal had worn the night before. Empty, deadened, a ghost of his usual self, and Mustang suddenly feels cold.

_This is Fullmetal's pain that I'm enjoying. Don't be such a fool as to forget that._

Guilt seeps into him, noxious, turning his stomach. He quickly excuses himself to shower, taking his time in the bathroom, and when he emerges Fullmetal is gone. Which is as it should be, he thinks, clamping down on the shiver of disappointment that runs through him. This is not recreation, and Edward has made it more than clear that it's not a relationship. What he's been doing is wrong. Not the sex itself, but taking more pleasure from the act than necessary.

It's within his power to keep Fullmetal away from the missions that might damage him further, and when he's not overburdened by the sins of the world, Edward won't need to come to him again. It's the only way, he thinks, the only means of keeping all the promises he's made- to Edward, to the memory of Maes, to himself... It's all he can do.

And how he hates himself for regretting the necessity.

But he soon has other thoughts to keep him company. The Colonel tastes sand on the wind as he walks home in the evenings, and cannot imagine why memories of Ishval should rise up so often now. But rainfall sometimes sounds like bullets, and a thunderstorm will keep him awake all night; lightning like alchemical flashes, thunder a muffled explosion. Only the nights that follow a visit with Edward can be relied upon to be peaceful, and he finds the irony bitterly amusing. What was meant as Fullmetal's respite has become his own, even as he tries to give the young man no reason to seek him out.

A mission comes across his desk: chimerical experimentation in the west, hideous results. The Colonel assigns Major Armstrong to investigate, and sends Fullmetal east to escort a supply caravan. That night he dreams of buildings collapsing in a holocaust of flame and awakens trembling and sweating, and hours pass before he's able to return to sleep.

A rumor surfaces, of some kind of healer in a remote mountain village. He calls Breda into his office, instructing him to find out more information before they commit to any action. After the Lieutenant leaves, he summons Fullmetal to discuss the progress of his research, and suggests a private archive in East City to which he can secure the young alchemist access. Edward glares at him skeptically, gold eyes challenging.

"Have there been no other leads?" he growls, and Mustang imagines he sees a hint of accusation in the petulant expression.

"Nothing of merit," he lies, and dismisses Fullmetal with a contact name and an address on a slip of paper. Edward pauses at the door on his way out, brows drawn together and an angry twist to his mouth, but he says nothing. The door slamming at his heels says enough.

It's easy to tell his conscience that he is doing the right thing. Shielding Fullmetal from the horrors that led him to construct his train schedule code, keeping him from that nadir where emotionless escapism is his only path to sanity; surely he's being honorable and responsible, protecting the young alchemist. He is Fullmetal's commanding officer; it's only proper for him to look out for those soldiers under his authority. He'd do the same for any of his men.

He never knew he was such a liar, and the knowledge burns in his throat.

But despite his best intentions, he finds himself craving Edward's presence. A buffer against his nightmares, which are becoming increasingly intrusive. The war occupies a corner of the Colonel's mind at all times now, a silent presence tugging at his attention, and he thinks Hawkeye is beginning to notice his distraction. He stares into nothing instead of focusing on his work, remembering the shifting landscape of dunes in a country where the earth played hide and seek with its inhabitants.

Night, and taking his ease by the fire is no longer a consolation, nor is the alcohol which has served as his defense for so long. He remembers the evenings in Ishval, blacker than any he'd seen before, stars burning with cold intensity overhead.. Not a single light was visible beyond the boundaries of the army encampment; what infrastructure the cities possessed was destroyed well before the State Alchemists arrived. He'd been amazed at the beauty of those nights, so lonely and austere. But with the darkness came death; guerrilla attacks by desperate Ishvalans, sandstorms that rose without warning, and could bury a camp in less than an hour. By the time he left, he hated the desert night.

A snap of his fingers, and the fire blazes hotter, brighter. The light from it drives the shadows back, and with them the feeling of eyes watching from their depths. Even in Ishval he hadn't feared the dark, only what it covered, though it was a fine distinction. But the darkness unnerves him now. As if something from Ishval had crept after him, hiding nearby. Waiting until he was weak.

And again he wishes for Edward. Sun-bright, fiercer than sandstorms or memories. There is no darkness that can compete with Edward's presence, and for a moment Mustang is tempted to recall him from Eastern. But he puts the selfish thought aside, and takes another swallow of scotch. Just don't think about it, he tells himself. It will go away.

But ten days after Fullmetal departs, Mustang dreams. Alleyways awash in soot and char, and greasy stains where bodies once lay. Dark-skinned children, burnt, blackened, skin sloughing from their bones. A small boy, half his face seared into an unrecognizable mass of blood and blistering flesh, raises an unsteady hand toward him, breath rattling wet and noisy in his throat and Mustang screams as his flailing arms are caught in the bedsheets. The tendons in his wrists stand out as his fingers snap ineffectively, and for a moment the heavy darkness of his room seems an extension of the nightmare. He can barely breathe, his heartbeat a panicked thrashing against his ribs, and he claws frantically at the material binding him until it gives way with a ripping noise. Backed up against the headboard, eyes wide and darting, and the first coherent thought that rises from the distress of his dream is, _I must find a new mission for Edward._

His stomach lurches, and he throws himself from the bed, rushing for the bathroom. Can't make it to the toilet, and instead retches violently into the sink as his gut twists and leaps within him. Heaves until there are tears in his eyes, until the spasms brings up only bile, burning. He hangs over the basin, hands white-knuckled on the rim, gulping down air in gasps and hating, _hating_ himself.

He can't do it. He _can't_. He promised himself he wouldn't send Edward back out, to resume his struggle with the horrors he currently holds at bay. He promised himself, Maes, to protect him. Not this. No matter what it does to him, he can't use Edward that way..

But Mustang shakes as though palsied, only his grip on the sink keeping him upright as his chest aches and his mind replays the nightmare over and over. Glancing up into the mirror he sees himself- face white and drawn, rivulets of tears spilling down his cheeks, haunted eyes- and hysterical laughter tries to bubble up through his ravaged throat. _I'm losing my mind, _he thinks, terrified. _Ishval is killing me after all._

There is no more rest for him that night. He cannot even return to his bed. Instead the Colonel sits on the floor, back pressed to the wall outside the bathroom as his fingertips trace out arrays on the carpet, waiting for dawn's light to crack apart the prison of his thoughts. But the sunrise brings him no relief; his eyes are empty as he stares across the room, seeing only darkness.

He barely remembers showering and dressing, somehow making it into the office without incident. Hawkeye approaches him with his usual cup of coffee and he waves her away; the smell of the brew is enough to turn Mustang's stomach. The rank aroma of burnt flesh still fills his nose, a harsh counterpoint to the self-loathing that fills his soul.

The phone rings; Hawkeye answers it. Fuery tinkers with his most recent piece of electronics, and the voices of Havoc and Falman rise and fall over the rustle of paperwork. Just like any other day except for the Colonel, who still hasn't touched pen or paper, who cannot eat nor drink, and could barely look at himself this morning to shave. Pitiful, he thinks. Where have all the high ideals and great ambitions gone?

Memories of Edward's drawn face, the dead children from his dream. _We take care of our own..._

"Sir?" Hawkeye leans in the office, disrupting his thoughts. "Lieutenant Breda is on the line."

He nods, his focus returning to the present as he picks up his phone. "Mustang here."

"Chief," Breda greets him, sounding grim. "We've got a live one."

"How bad?"

A grunt. "Hard to say, sir. Folks around here don't talk much to uniforms. But strange things are happening up on the mountain, that's for damn sure. And I've heard mentions..." He pauses, uncomfortable. "I've heard mentions of people coming back from the dead."

_No_.

"Sir, I've collected as much information as I can, but I don't pretend to know what all of it means. If you ask my opinion, I think we need the Fullmetal boss up here to sort it out. This is more his area, after all."

_Not Fullmetal. Not Edward._

_But who else?_

"Your orders, sir?"

The Colonel takes a deep, steadying breath, and knows that he is damned. "Stay there," he tells Breda, barely recognizing his own voice. "I'll contact Fullmetal and send him out to meet you. You're to set up and maintain a command post, as well as providing backup while Fullmetal investigates further. Keep me informed, and let me know immediately if there is anything you need."

As soon as he hangs up the guilt strikes, heavy and suffocating. _You have a duty_, the shade of Maes reminds him, but the echoed command does nothing to bring relief. Once again, he is throwing Edward to the wolves. Once again, he is breaking his word. Despite that it's beyond his control he is following through on his worst impulse, and the sense of betrayal is almost more than he can bear.


	8. Chapter 8

"It's a fucking cult," Fullmetal snarls through the telephone. "It's goddamn disgusting."

"How so?"

"He preaches alchemical law like it's a fucking religion! Not science!" Edward sounds scandalized, and at any other time, Mustang would find this amusing. "And these people _believe_ him!"

"Farmers and miners aren't known for being the most philosophically inclined, Fullmetal. Nor do they tend to have the advantage of good education, especially in such a remote area." It used to be easy to keep up this charade. Keep it cool and professional, maintain distance. Officer and alchemist, with no greater concerns than the degree of damage Fullmetal would cause on this mission.

It's no longer so simple.

He can imagine Edward rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. "That's not the point," he snaps. "They _know_ better. They've seen alchemy before. It's _not_ a fucking religion."

"What have you learned about this group?"

Fullmetal makes a disdainful sound. "Secretive as all hell, but then I guess that's pretty much the norm for a goddamn cult. Mostly keep to themselves, doing some religious shit I assume. A few of them come into town from time to time for supplies."

"And their leader?"

A string of vile curses. "The so-called Resurrectionist? It's bullshit. Look, I've talked to one or two of his people; they're not right. Completely fucked in the head, I bet he's got them all brainwashed. Probably sit around in those caves pulling coins out of each others' ears and think they're raising the dead."

If only that were so. He can still hope that it is. "We need to be sure, however. If they are-"

"They aren't." Fullmetal's flat denial leaves no room for argument. "It can't be done. You should know better. But no, you had to pull me and Al away from that archive just when we'd finally found some books that looked promising, to waste our time coming up here to tell you that. You can't bring people back from the dead, Mustang. It doesn't work. Ever."

He sighs, tired. Alongside the confidence he's always had in Edward's abilities, there is now a tight ball of worry that hangs deep in his chest. "I know that, Fullmetal. But the generals are going to want something a little more definitive than the rules of alchemy, I'm afraid. You're going to have to find out just what it is they _are_ up to on that mountain. There are laws against more than just human transmutation."

"No _shit_, Colonel. I didn't say I was done. I just said it was fucking disgusting, and that they aren't doing what they say they are. This Resurrectionist fuck is a fraud."

"I believe you." There's more that he wants to say, but Mustang can't think of how he'd phrase the questions he wants to ask even if he weren't in his office. But he is, and Edward likely wouldn't answer them anyway. "Is there anything you need up there?"

"Besides an explanation for you suddenly acting _nice_? No, it's fine, we're fine." Edward sniffs, then quickly adds, "Blankets. We could use some decent blankets, the ones in this hotel are like goddamn tissues."

Cold mountain air and automail. Probably not the most comfortable combination. "I'll have those sent out first thing," the Colonel replies. "And I want another report in three days, unless you discover something important."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Are we done already? You wanna talk to Breda?"

"I talked to him earlier. So yes, we're done."

"_Finally_."

"Edward... Take care of yourself. That's an order."

There's a pause. "Stupid bastard," Fullmetal growls low in his throat, and hangs up.

Mustang sets the receiver in its cradle, laces his fingers together and rests his chin on his knuckles. Not even twenty years old, and dealing with things that would give men twice his age pause, and when does Fullmetal's strength end? Every assignment makes the Colonel wonder now, if this one will be the one that proves too much to handle. And while he is more than willing to be there to catch him if it becomes too much, he can't help but worry for the young man. Because there is only so much anyone can endure- even the seemingly indestructible Fullmetal- before they finally, inevitably, break.

* * *

The Colonel has always possessed reserves of patience, but his resolve is sorely tested this time. The spaces that stretch between phonecalls are interminable, and his communications with Breda and Fullmetal soon become the lifelines that ground him. The conversations are short, often interrupted- that mountain range is known for its instability, and the frequent tremors often knock out the phonelines temporarily- but he depends upon them utterly. Each call is a prayer- please, let Edward stay strong. Don't let me be responsible for further injury to his soul.

This is moving beyond a loss of objectivity. This is skirting the perilous realm of favoritism, improper bias. And for all his ambition, Mustang can't bring himself to care. Concern for Edward's wellbeing occupies most of his spare thoughts, despite being aware of the fury such solicitude would earn him from the younger man.

He no longer cares about that, either.

He studies maps of the mountainous region, and pores over the reports he has received from Breda well past his usual office hours. Sifts through the little bits of background material that Intelligence is able to provide him for the few names he's been given. Hawkeye doesn't remark over his newfound industriousness, but gives him an inscrutable dark glance as she prepares to depart for the evening. The Colonel hardly notices when she leaves; his attention is on the papers before him, certain that there is something he can divine from the scraps of information. Something to help bring this assignment to a conclusion.

_You can't carry it all, _Maes whispers to him, concern wrinkling his brow, his uniform gray with sand and dust. _You have to let it go sometime._

But he can't. If not for him, Edward could have had a chance at a normal life. Instead he's already old, worn down by responsibilities that were never his to shoulder. It is Mustang's fault; it's because of him that Edward is Fullmetal, and he will not abandon the young man to the indiscriminate horrors that accompany his position.

His fruitless search continues until night is bleeding into morning, and it's too late to think of rest. He rarely sleeps now, anyway.

"Have you learned anything new?"

"Learned that Breda snores loud enough to hear through a fucking wall. I shoulda gotten a room down the hall from him."

"Fullmetal..." It's Friday, late in the afternoon. Well after the time when, in the past, he would have already been gone from the complex of offices. But the call had been late coming, and although the switchboard would have redirected it to his home he didn't want to chance missing it while he traveled the short distance between office and house. "Please tell me you have something better than that to report."

Edward sounds further away than usual, the line hissing faintly with static. "I got a good contact finally."

Mustang straightens in his chair, leaning forward with anticipation. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. Not inner circle, or anything like that, if they even _have_ anything like that, but he'll talk to me. He's a good kid, lost his whole family from some sickness or other a while back. I think he joined this bunch just 'cause he's lonely. So anyway, I made up some bullshit story about losing my own family..."

He can well imagine what Edward might have told the boy.

"... and he tells me about living with the cult. I don't get the impression he really likes it, or that he thinks that Resurrectionist asshole is gonna bring his family back, but he doesn't have anywhere else to go. I'm gonna talk to him before we leave, see if he wants to come along. Kid like that shouldn't be living with a bunch of freaks."

The Colonel smiles. "That's quite noble of you, Fullmetal."

"Kids shouldn't be left alone," Edward states in a low, flat voice, and although his words are spoken calmly, the Colonel can feel the rumbling undercurrent of anger and resentment beneath them.

"I agree," he replies solemnly. "And I meant what I said without reservation. Shall I see what can be put together ahead of his arrival?"

There's a pause, and then Edward makes a soft _hah_ sound of surprise. "Yeah," he finally answers. "That'd be great."

"It's my pleasure to help out," Mustang tells him. "Now about your report..."

"Aw _shit_," Fullmetal interjects, as the static on the line spikes. "Hang on, another tremor-"

The line abruptly goes dead. It's not the first time this has happened and as always, the Colonel presses the phone to his ear for a moment, hoping the line will come back up, before eventually setting the receiver down with a sigh. He considers waiting to see if the phonelines are restored quickly- the region is used to dealing with these outages, after all- and if Edward will call back, but decides against it. Fullmetal rarely calls again once the phones go out; Mustang is the one clinging to these conversations, not him. Instead he alerts the switchboard operators that he is leaving for the day, and to direct any calls to his house line, and then bundles up for the short walk home.

* * *

Edward doesn't call back. On Saturday night, worn from worry and still feeling eyes upon him, he forces himself to clean up, combing his hair to its usual, rakish disorder and dressing to stun. A few calls are placed, a time is arranged, and he sets out shortly after for his first date in months. He's uninterested in the lady's laughter and tittering conversation, but the scotch no longer helps him and she has always been willing. Tonight is no different.

It's easy to lose himself in the moment, feeling his burdens lift as he moves within her. But as soon as the tremors of his release have passed, the darkness and guilt return. Heavier than before, pulsing at the back of his skull like a bruise in his mind, and he cannot tolerate the light caresses and pillow talk the woman offers. He escapes her company as quickly as politeness allows pleading duty, and walks back to his home through the night, one ear tuned for the slide of sand that presages an attack.

"I'm not going to learn anything down here."

Mustang shifts in his chair. "Certainly there must be..."

"No, there isn't. I've gotten all I can from the people who come into town. Asking any more questions is only gonna arouse suspicions. I've got to go up there."

The Colonel puts a hand over the receiver, muttering an angry curse. Across the room, Hawkeye lifts an eyebrow, and he spins the chair around to face the window. "Are you sure that's wise?" he asks.

"No. But I don't see what choice I have. You and the brass wanna know what that fuck is doing in those caves, and his people aren't just gonna tell me. Look, I've already got it worked out, it won't be a problem."

The ever-present worry flares inside of him, but the Colonel keeps his voice level. "What are you planning?"

"Benny can take me up there. I've been hinting for a while that I might be interested in joining them, and he couldn't be happier about it. So he takes me up there, I meet the head fraud, and if I'm lucky I get to see what he's up to. Piece of cake."

It sounds easy, when Fullmetal puts it like that, but the Colonel knows better. "Religious fanatics aren't like most people," he warns. "If they suspect you mean them or their religion harm, they could do anything."

"Oh _thank_ you, Mustang, I had _no_ idea! It wasn't like I had to deal with Cornello and _his_ fanatics trying to kill me or anything when I was fucking _thirteen_."

The Colonel gives a dry chuckle. "Point taken. So I assume that Alphonse will be accompanying you?"

"No," Fullmetal replies, and the cockiness in his voice is replaced with frustration. "People are scared of him. It's _stupid_, if they'd talk to him they'd know that Al isn't fucking scary, but they won't come anywhere near him. It hurts his feelings, being treated like that. It's so fucked up, it's stupid, _people_ are stupid, accepting me but not _him._" He sighs. "So he can't come. I've got to go alone."

He doesn't like this one bit. "What about Breda?" he suggests, as his fingers begin to drum restlessly on the chair arm. "Alphonse could man the post, and Breda could relate any information to him..."

Edward makes a rude noise. "He's barely tolerated more than Al, and that's only because they can see his _face_. People around here don't like the military, Mustang."

He has to clamp down on the urge to order Fullmetal to stay in the town, to under no circumstances go up there alone. But this is no more than he's been asking of Edward since he was little more than a child. To make the demand would be unreasonable, and so he swallows it and instead says, "You'll be careful."

"No," Fullmetal sneers. "I thought I'd traipse in there and announce that I'm a State Alchemist here to arrest their fucking Resurrectionist leader for human transmutation. Are you stupid? Oh _course_ I'm gonna be careful! For fucks sake, do you think I'm an idiot? God_damn_..." He trails out in a string of growled curses, both furious and exasperated, and when he's quiet again the Colonel sighs.

"Make sure you find some way to communicate with Alphonse or Breda while you're up there. I don't want you cut off from your backup." Edward mutters something that he takes for assent, and Mustang adds, "And try not to blow up the mountain while you're there."

Fullmetal gives another exasperated snort, but he also sounds pleased. "No promises," he huffs, and hangs up.

The Colonel waits a moment, then sets the phone down carefully, instead of slamming it as he would like. Edward is right, this is the best way, but he's not at all comfortable with it. The knot of worry tightens behind his ribs, until his heart is fluttering as though he'd just finished running laps around the parade ground. If anyone can handle this, Fullmetal can, he tells himself. And this will almost certainly bring the assignment to a speedier resolution than waiting for the information to fall into their hands. Edward will be able to go back to the archive, safely out of harms way, and Mustang will be able to breathe again. Things will be just like before, and isn't that what he wanted?

_And even if things _do_ turn ugly on the mountain,_ the cynical, calculating portion of his mind suggests, _then Edward will come back to you. And won't that solve so many problems?_

But he shoves the thought away, furious at himself. _I don't want Edward to come back to me_, he thinks. _I want him to come back _safe_._

_

* * *

  
_

The next week is difficult. A member of the secretarial pool is discovered to be a Cretan spy, and the subsequent fallout disrupts routines throughout Central Headquarters. Intelligence is swamped with background checks on staff, and new procedures are hastily developed and put into use in all departments. The Colonel's schedule is packed with meeting; Generals, Intelligence, twice with the Fuhrer himself. They drag on for hours, frequently straight through lunchtime, and too often Mustang hauls himself back to his office once they conclude, hunger forgotten in the wake of his fatigue. His strain and exhaustion is evident enough that even Hawkeye doesn't have the heart to wake him when he nods off over his paperwork.

On top of that, the calls from Breda are less than encouraging. Neither he nor Alphonse have seen Fullmetal since he left with the boy from the cult despite Edward's promises to try and keep in communication with them. Members of the group still come and go in the town, so it is unlikely that there have been any great upsets within the group, but it's impossible for either the Lieutenant or Alphonse to approach them. And every three days the reports are the same- situation unchanged. No new information.

The wait to know something- anything- is maddening. There are days when the Colonel is tempted to send Breda up the mountain to retrieve Fullmetal just to end the tortuous waiting, but despite his emotions he's still an officer. He will not jeopardize the mission there, and render everything Fullmetal has done to this point meaningless.

Still, he thinks about it. And when, after two weeks of nothing, Breda calls and informs him that there is still no word from Edward, the Colonel decides that enough is enough and orders the Lieutenant to go in search of the alchemist if he's heard nothing in two days. Satisfied that one way or another, he will finally have some word of the impetuous young man, he sets out for home feeling better than he has in weeks.

Back at his house, he settles in at his desk to read the few pages that comprise the dossier Intelligence had been able to scrape up regarding the Resurrectionist. As expected, the man had been a smalltime alchemist before abandoning his craft for his religious crusade. But further details about him are tantalizingly scant; he'd been married, he had no children. He'd lived in the region all his life, which doubtless accounted for his reasoning in moving his cult to the mountain caves. And there is nothing beyond these few scraps that could be accounted as fact, and not hearsay. It's extremely frustrating.

The telephone suddenly shrills to life, and Mustang's head shoots up, a frown on his face. Calls to his home are rare, and with a sudden stab of irritation he recalls the procedures checklist he was supposed to turn in to General Malvern before he left. Surely it wasn't so important as to merit calling him after hours?

He picks up the phone, shouldering the receiver as he reaches for the dossier again. "Mustang."

"Please hold while we connect an incoming call," comes the chirpy voice of the switchboard operator, and the Colonel's heart leaps painfully.

A hiss of static, and then, "Chief?" Breda's voice is strained; he's nearly shouting. "You there?"

"I'm here, Lieutenant. Report."

He has to concentrate, to hear Breda's response through the interference on the line. "Something's happened on the mountain. Not sure... an explosion, maybe? Lots of smoke over the trees. Had to be pretty damn big, whatever it was."

His chest feels as though it's collapsing, he can barely breathe, but years of discipline bring words to his lips nonetheless. "Any sign of Fullmetal?"

"None, sir. Alphonse took off right away..." The receiver presses hard enough to hurt against his ear, but Mustang can't tell if the distress in Breda's tone is real, or the projection of his own fears. "...couldn't stop him and frankly, I didn't want to. If anything happened to the boss..."

"Fullmetal has a remarkable ability to survive," He knows he has to stay confident for his men, to project calm assurance even when he's paralyzed in his seat. But his mind is muttering a mantra of prayers and pleading even as he continues answering the Lieutenant's questions and giving the appropriate orders. He wants to drop the telephone, _run_ for the train station and propriety be damned, but instead he keeps his voice steady, assuring Breda that Havoc and his backup unit will be dispatched in the morning.

"And the cult members, sir? If any of them are still alive?"

_Edward_. He has never in his life felt so much fear for another person, but if he imagines for one instant that that brilliant life is gone, he will be unable to function. And Breda is still waiting for an answer. He draws a shaky breath, another, willing himself calm.

"Finding Fullmetal is your first priority. Detain anyone from the cult for questioning. And if you find their leader, this so-called Resurrectionist..." The reason he was forced to send Edward up there, the undoubted source of this disaster... His heart gives a sickening thud and the fear sharpens into terrible anger as it finds a focus, someone other than himself to blame. Bare fingers brace against his thumb hard enough to cramp, a pillar of flame rising in his mind. "... if you find him, hold him for me. I'll deal with him personally."

"Understood, sir."

There is a moment of silence after he hangs up the phone, before it is suddenly, painfully real, as though he were on the mountain in the chaos of the night. Where Fullmetal is alone, amid the fire and the caves and fanatics- alone, because Mustang was fool enough to send him there.

If the worst has come to pass, there will be no forgiveness; he will hate himself for the rest of his cursed life, and deserve it, for letting Edward die alone. Desperately, he forces his thoughts away from that dark brink. Edward is stronger than anyone he's known, unstoppable, an unquenchable fire- even if he's injured, he _must_ still be alive and fighting. He can't allow himself to believe otherwise.

He can feel that vicious wind beginning to whip and closes his eyes for a brief moment, rallying the mask that has stared down war and death with equanimity. Feel nothing; do your duty. With a trembling hand, the Colonel reaches for the telephone once again, and begins to put the rescue mission in motion.


	9. Chapter 9

Havoc's team departs the next morning at nine, on a military express that will reach the site late that evening. The Colonel spends the the morning in a flurry of activity, completing all the routine paperwork and clearing his schedule for the next couple of days so that he can concentrate on the crisis at hand. But once all the necessary tasks are finished, he is faced with the awful emptiness of waiting, yet again. Breda is, presumably, still on the mountain and no amount of useless fretting and pacing will bring his call any sooner.

The day passes with agonizing slowness, punctuated only by Hawkeye's infrequent appearances with coffee or additional paperwork. Mustang drinks the coffee like an addict taking his fix, running on the caffeine and adrenaline cocktail that burns away his fatigue. The small trickle of work still coming into his office isn't enough to distract him from the clock and the telephone, and more than once he casts a considering stare at the closet, where his black travel bag sits at the ready. But even if he caught another express it would take most of a day to arrive at the nameless mountain town, and he cannot wait that long to receive word of events.

A little after three, the phone finally rings. Mustang spills his most recent mug of coffee in his haste to answer.

Breda sounds exhausted, though businesslike as ever. "It's a mess up there, sir," he says by way of greeting. "Some of the caves have collapsed completely."

Focus, he thinks, pushing aside the brief spike of panic as images of devastation sweep through his mind. "Survivors?" he snaps. Keep it short, succinct, so neither Breda nor Hawkeye will hear how deep the fear cuts him.

"Looks like most made it. A few are injured, but less than I'd have thought given the damage. They're being taken in by the townsfolk, but I'm getting names for interviews later."

_Fuck the fanatics_, the Colonel wants to say. But instead he grits his teeth. "And Fullmetal?"

Breda sighs, worn and defeated. "No sign, sir. Nothing at all."

The Colonel can hear the implication going unspoken, but his mind steadfastly refuses to accept it. "Look for a boy named Benny. He was Ed's contact, and might know where he is." A thought occurs to him, and he asks, "How is Alphonse holding up?" Surely the younger Elric would know, if anything had happened to his beloved elder brother. Alphonse will succeed where they have failed because Edward cannot be dead, it's unthinkable...

A pause. "He's... he won't stop looking. He's been up there since last night. He was moving some of the debris when I let him know I was coming down here to call you, and I expect that's where I'll find him when I return." Emotion breaks into Breda's normally stoic composure, and he chokes a little. "It's fucking breaking my heart, sir. If he was in there, I don't see how the boss could've lived through that..."

He can't feel a thing. Every part of him is numb, except for the howling ache behind his ribs that threatens to devour him. It takes every reserve of control he possesses to force himself to speak. "You said yourself, Lieutenant, that there were few injuries. Don't count Fullmetal out just yet. If anyone could survive it, he will." The right words, the proper words, but how can he say them, when he is so terrified that he'll be proven wrong? And yet Breda sounds relieved as he concludes the call, his belief in his Colonel's reassurances all he needs to carry on with hope.

Mustang folds his hands, resisting the urge to bury his face in them. Appearances must be maintained, but inside he feels so very lost, wanting nothing more than someone to offer him the same assurances he so blithely passes on to others.

Don't make me a liar, Fullmetal, don't you _dare_ be dead...

* * *

There is little to be done after Breda's call. There's nothing he _can_ do, save wait and worry and it's grinding him down to something raw and vulnerable. Mustang is not used to being helpless, not after the years spent girding himself with alchemy and rank and influence. But faced with the unalterable fact of his impotence, he has no idea how to comport himself. The rest of the afternoon is spent in fruitless paper-shuffling and phonecalls that lead to no greater result than Major Armstrong electing to assist in the rescue. Galling as it is, the Colonel agrees to his request although he'd as soon be the one traveling to the site.

When, after hours of harassing the office staff, Hawkeye suggests that he ought to go home, the Colonel declines. "What could I possibly do there?" he demands. Echoing emptiness in his house, and too much temptation from his scotch, and he thinks he would go mad without even the futile distractions of paperwork and bad coffee.

She gives him a stern looking-over. "Rest," she tells him in a flat tone. "It will be hours before Havoc arrives and is able to relieve Breda. And calls can be forwarded."

He narrows his eyes. "I'll sleep in my office."

* * *

Stretching out on the couch, Mustang already knows this is a lost cause. Even if his nerves weren't strung to a near intolerable, screaming tension, even if his mind weren't spinning and seeking some way to act on the crisis, he still couldn't sleep here. Not on this couch, where Edward has slouched and lounged. Not with his cheek pressed against the cushions, where the musky scent of leather only recalls the smell of tight black pants, and Edward yet again.

It will mean another argument with Hawkeye if he tries to get up, go back to work. So he lies quietly, eyes closed, wide awake and tasting memories of Edward with every breath.

* * *

Havoc calls at eleven thirty. The Second Lieutenant has already sent half his force up the mountain, while settling the rest in the inn until the first team tires. Mustang approves of his decision, as well as his plans to begin interviews with the cult members in the morning. Breda has just returned from the site, exhausted, and reports that Alphonse is still digging tirelessly through the rubble of the collapse.

"Anything?" the Colonel demands. "Any sign?"

"Nothing, sir" comes the weary response. "We've seen nothing at all."

"Keep looking," he orders, though he knows they will without being told.

Hawkeye is dozing lightly at her desk, head pillowed on her arms as he hangs up the phone. In the far corner of the office, the Colonel can hear Fuery speaking softly with Falman, their voices hushed with fatigue. Other soldiers, as much his responsibility as Fullmetal, but ones he can take care of. _I should send them home_, he thinks, his own head swimming with exhaustion. _There's nothing else they can do tonight_

The officers snap to attention as he walks to his doorway, looking up at him with such trust that he wants to ask what he ever did to earn their faith. They protest when he dismisses them, as dedicated to the task as the Colonel, but he is firm about sending them on their way. They have worked hard today, and deserve to rest in their own beds.

Falman and Fuery finally wander out, but Lieutenant Hawkeye pauses in the doorway. "Sir? Aren't you going home as well?"

"Soon," he replies, turning back toward his office so she doesn't see the lie in his face. "Just a few things to tidy up, and I'll be on my way." He already knows there will be no sleep for him tonight and as long as he's available to the office phone his mind will, if not rest easily, at least not send him mad with imaginings. He has to be nearby. Just in case.

He can feel weight of the Lieutenant's concerned eyes on his back. "Try not to stay too late, sir," she tells him quietly, undeceived, before the echo of her bootheels fades down the hallways.

Without the need to uphold appearances for his subordinates, Mustang stumbles over to the couch and lets his head sink into his hands for the first time that day. _This should never have happened,_ he thinks, but he's not certain if he means the mission, or his inability to remain detached where Edward is concerned. His chest aches, his head is pounding, and he sits still for another moment, scrubbing at eyes that are inexplicably burning. But he pushes himself to his feet, moving stiffly as he picks up the telephone from the desk and brings it back to the couch with him, trailing the cord along the floor. Placing it on the cushion next to him, he leans back with his arms folded across his chest. Settles in for the night, trying not to think of anything at all, but breathing, breathing Edward...

* * *

With Havoc and Breda both on site, the phone calls come more frequently, but with as little information as ever. Still searching the caves and surrounding area; nothing found. Still conducting interviews; no reasonable leads. No Fullmetal. As though he were never there at all.

It's not until the evening that the news changes. Havoc calls, and from the moment the Colonel picks up the phone, he knows that something is wrong. Stomach rolling, he waits for the words that will crush him beyond redemption, and a vague, disconnected part of himself wonders if he'll be capable of maintaining any composure if he hears Havoc tell him that Edward is dead.

But Havoc doesn't say that. He talks about the people he's been interviewing, the difficulties his unit is experiencing shifting the rubble to search the caves, the goddamn _weather_, until the Colonel finally snaps with frustration. "What aren't you telling me, Lieutenant?"

He can hear Havoc chewing on his cigarette, and in that instant the Colonel _hates_ the fucking telephone, which only serves to tantalize him with enough fragments of information to make him frantic with worry. He wants to _be_ there, to know what is happening; he could figure out what transpired and _do_ something, find Edward, if only he knew enough. And Havoc still isn't talking.

"Lieutenant?"

"Sir, I... I've got some bad news."

A chill runs through him, and everything goes black beyond his eyes. Clinging to the receiver in a white-knuckled grip, he is certain he's going to be sick but forces the words out anyway. "I'm waiting." Fire in his stomach, he still can't see, and any moment now the entire world is going to collapse upon him.

Havoc coughs. "It's Alphonse, sir. He's gone."

The room is suddenly visible again, spinning. "Gone?" he repeats stupidly, aware that there is significance in this, but the only thing registering is clear relief that the news is not of Edward's death. "Where?"

"That's just it, sir. I don't know. No one does."

It's difficult to make his mind focus, when all it wants to think about is the fact that he hasn't been confronted with the facts of Edward's fate just yet. But this is important; Alphonse and Edward have always been inseparable. For Al to simply disappear...

"How long has he been gone?" he asks, possibilities whirling through his head as Havoc tells him that the younger Elric hasn't been seen since late last night. It makes no sense; there is simply no way Alphonse would give up looking if any hope remained. Could he still be searching elsewhere, or is he in some danger as well? He'd been digging- was there another collapse? Are there more perils on the mountain than they know? Did he find something?

Edward... alive?

He orders Havoc to expand the search into the surrounding forest, hoping that Alphonse's armored form will prove an easier quarry than Fullmetal. After, he turns his chair to the window, staring out over Central with unseeing eyes as he clasps his trembling hands tight in his lap and tries to bring his thoughts to order. _He must have found him_, his mind keeps repeating. _Alphonse would never leave his brother. He found him, and he'll bring him back. The next call will be from Breda, telling me that Alphonse has delivered Fullmetal to the town. Hurt, yes, but alive. Alphonse _will_ bring him back._

He has no idea how long he tells himself this. But the phone doesn't ring again that day.

* * *

The week passes as a haze, and he's somehow able to operate on autopilot throughout it; giving orders, taking in information, while his mind churns with speculation and worry. There are rare, lucid moments when he can actually think, before he descends once again into the maelstrom of emotion, and as an officer he shouldn't feel these things. It's dangerous; for him, for Edward, for the others who depend upon him. He shouldn't feel this creeping terror that Edward's luck has run out, that he is truly gone this time.

Each time his thoughts run to this end, a little of the hope inside him dies. Because surely by now there should have been word. Edward should have called, cocky and furious, pissed at being thrown off his personal quest by something as inconsequential as broken ribs or a severe concussion. Alphonse should have brought his brother back to the base at the inn, overriding the complaints and excuses with his sound judgment and dependable nature. But the response Mustang waits for is less than an echo in the vacuum that exists between the camp and his office.

Major Armstrong arrives at the mountain, his particular brand of alchemy dramatically increasing the pace of the excavations. Mustang has to acknowledge that his own alchemy would have been useless in those circumstances, particularly when the Major reports that there are substantial gas pockets being discovered in the rubble. But the gas-filled voids in the rock are empty of anything human, living or dead, and the Colonel grudgingly accustoms himself to the usual reports: no change, nothing found.

The investigation in the village and in the area surrounding the caves is similarly bleak. Along with Fullmetal, neither the Resurrectionist nor Edward's friend Benny have been found, and Mustang will not allow himself to project what this may mean. Neither has Alphonse been seen since the day he vanished; nothing more noteworthy than deer trails and a couple small rockslides have been discovered on the mountain's flanks. But though the belief becomes more implausible by the day, the Colonel still clings to the waning expectation that wherever the younger Elric is, his brother is there as well.

When word finally comes that bodies have been discovered in the wreckage of one of the deeper caves, the Colonel closes and locks his office door for an hour and lets the world crash to a halt. Not quite the news he'd been dreading, but so close, too close to allow his denial any longer. Deep below the ground, crushed by the collapsed roof of the cave, there is little left to identify but his mind fills in the details all too well. Let them find anything that might be the remains of automail, long strands of bright gold hair, and the tenuous hold he has on his sanity will surely fail. He doesn't want to know anything more. Confirmation would break him utterly.

When he finally opens his door again his face is impassive, his emotions locked away behind his most impenetrable mask. Hawkeye watches him with dark, sympathetic eyes while Fuery seems on the verge of tears. Even Falman's stiff demeanor has slipped, but the Colonel quietly tells them to wait until all the evidence is gathered before drawing conclusions. The correct words, once again, but he can barely hear them for the wail of guilt that reverberates through his entire body. _I sent him there, it's my fault..._

He remembers nothing of the rest of the day, his thoughts with the dead on the mountain. At home, he pulls the scotch from the bar and doesn't even bother with a glass, drinking it in long gulps straight from the bottle and not caring how quickly it rushes to his head. He knows that the hangover in the morning will be vicious, but it hardly matters when balanced against the hideous ache that inhabits him now.

In Ishval, he stole the lives of so many innocent people. But for years he has put those terrible thoughts and memories out of his mind, focusing instead on the penance he chose. Next to that, Edward should be nothing- one man, one life. There is simply no comparison between the two.

And yet this most recent sin tears at him, attacking his very foundation and threatening to topple him as Ishval did not. His breath catches painfully in his throat; the world lurches, and he's sliding to the floor beside his sofa, still clutching the bottle between his hands. Not quite crying; the room is a liquid blur in his vision, but he's looking into the past, seeing tents in a desert and a farmhouse with a broken child. All of his failures, all of his mistakes; everything he's done that has only heaped more misery into a miserable world, and why did he ever think his ideals would be enough?

"I wanted to protect him, Maes," he moans aloud, taking another burning swig from the bottle. "Wanted to help him. Instead, I killed him." A laugh crackles across dry lips, bitter and broken and filled with self-loathing. "I can't save anyone."

Another drink, and the bottle is empty. Mustang studies it briefly, before throwing it with all his might into the dancing flames of the fireplace, watching the glass shatter against the stones and the fire briefly flare blue. _I didn't want this, Fullmetal_, he thinks, head dropping to his chest as grief and tears finally shatter his facade. _Why couldn't I keep you alive?_

* * *

Despite the alcohol the dreams come that night, sly and savage, as he knew they would. But they are not the hallucinogenic exaggerations he's experienced in the past, only stark, direct memories of the destruction wrought by his hands, all the worse for their reality. In his mind he walks through the ruins of all the cities he razed, past every Ishvalan he seared beyond recognition, seeking survivors among the blackened buildings and streets. No one challenges him as he wanders through the landscape of his sins, the ragged desert wind his only companion, but every charred corpse stares up at him as he passes with perfect, untouched eyes of sunset gold.

* * *

He arrives late at work the next day, bleary and disheveled, and for once Hawkeye lets it pass. The entire office is unusually subdued, conversations held in low tones and the rustle of paperwork the only other sound. Even without confirmation, yesterday's tidings are a millstone, grinding precious hope to dust and the lack of it shows in every pale face. Mustang sits idle at his desk, oblivious to the reports at his elbow and staring blankly at the woodgrain of his desktop, its glossy finish scuffed in places by an impatient automail hand.

Around noon the phone rings, and the Colonel casts it a look of despairing hatred. But he picks it up all the same, compelled by duty, answering with a curt, "Mustang."

Major Armstrong, his booming voice barely modulated by the tinny, distant line. "Sir," he reports, "We have run into several unexpected setbacks in the retrieval mission."

Mustang pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. "What kind of setbacks, Major?"

"The caves are apparently still somewhat unstable. We've had another small collapse while trying to exhume the bodies. No one injured," he adds, and Mustang is grateful for that. "Also, the gas in the caves is turning out to be quite a problem. Sergeant Bey was in charge of the digging yesterday, and was overcome by it. The man was acting almost drunk, and he's not been the only one affected."

This is it, then. Mustang's heart gives one last shivering leap, before turning to stone in his chest. Conditions have become too dangerous, and if he is any decent kind of leader, he will not risk his men further. It's time to face the facts, act as an officer should, and salvage what remains.

But it feels like betrayal all the same.

"Call it off," he orders, the command burning on his tongue. "It's over."

"Sir? What about..."

_Edward..._

Mustang clenches his fist until the knuckles stand out white and painful. "I said call it off, Major," he repeats, voice grating and catching on every word. "Focus on your interviews of the Resurrectionist's people, but end your operations in the cave. No one else needs to die in that hole."


	10. Chapter 10

Days since the search was called off. How many days? The Colonel can't recall, doesn't care, can't seem to move past the horrible realization that he has abandoned Edward, alive or dead. No matter that the decision was the right one, a necessary one, no matter that that collapsed cave is likely Fullmetal's tomb, it nevertheless has the ability to stop him cold in his tracks, because _he did this_. No matter how he twists the rationalization, that he had no choice, there was no evidence to contradict what reason suggested, _he_ was the one who ended it. And the order burns in his soul; his own private damnation.

But there is still the situation on the mountain to be dealt with. Havoc reports that the cult members, so forthcoming in the moments following the crisis, have become fractious. Refusing his men any contact with the recently revived. The resurrected are in a period of 'readjustment,' they say, and cannot be disturbed.

Mustang grits his teeth. "Those people are the only evidence we have of the activities of the Resurrectionist, Lieutenant." There is pain behind those words, pain that he has to ignore, because Edward died for the secrets held in the revenants, and he simply can't think about it. "I don't care who is disturbed or what you have to do to get access to the resurrected, but I want Major Armstrong to examine them. If they were truly returned from the dead..."

_Don't even think about it, that is not a place you can go..._

"Yes sir. And what should we do with the rest of the people?"

_I don't care. I don't know. Make them bring Fullmetal back. _"Disperse them. Send them back wherever they came from as soon as you have their statements. Any of them that give you trouble, put them in the local jail or under military guard for a week, and see if that doesn't settle them out." He heaves a sigh, feeling empty and utterly spent. "None of them have done anything wrong, so just send them home."

Of Alphonse, there continues to be no word. He has disappeared from the mountain as traceless as the wind, and no seven foot suit of antique armor should be able to vanish like that. If his heart weren't already sick and frozen, the further loss of the youngest Elric would have been devastating. As it is, Mustang has no idea how he will be able to relate the news to the Rockbells, the closest thing the young men had to kin. He spends a fruitless afternoon staring down the phone, trying to muster the resolve to place the call, but never finds the words to encompass such a catastrophe. He suspects there are none.

More long nights. Fragmented, dream-wracked sleep. An endless tunnel of guilt and recrimination, and he doesn't deserve to find the way out.

At the office, and Hawkeye is speaking to him, has been for some time he realizes. Mustang blinks, coming back from wherever his thoughts had stranded him, trying to focus on her face and words. The Lieutenant's expression is studiously impassive, but there's a hint of sympathy softening her features as she addresses him. "General Malvern is expecting your report on the skirmishes at the Cretan border in an hour." A gentle reminder, laying a folder on his blotter.

The Colonel frowns just slightly, gaze flicking over the folder. His head is throbbing; lack of sleep has exacted a nasty toll on him, but he'll be damned before he tells her that. Passing a hand across his eyes- they ache abominably- he tries to rally this thoughts back into some coherent order. "That meeting isn't scheduled until Wednesday."

Is that pity edging out the compassion in her eyes? "Sir, it _is_ Wednesday."

He rubs his face again, not even bothering to conceal his discomfort. "Then send him my apologies, and reschedule the meeting, please. I haven't the faintest idea what's been happening on the Cretan border."

"With all due respect, sir, you cannot reschedule this meeting." Deferential, polite, and utterly immovable. "General Malvern disapproves of you already. You cannot afford to slight him." She taps the folder with her forefinger. "I've compiled all the information you'll need to make your report in here. If you start reading now, there should be plenty of time to prepare."

He has no doubts that Hawkeye researched the border skirmishes on her own time, purely out of loyalty to him, and his goals. Doing her own job as well as his, and how did he ever earn such devotion from his subordinates? He thanks her graciously, flips open the folder to study its contents. She is right; there's work to be done, and he has other responsibilities that he must attend to. Others who need him, who believe in his ideals, though he now finds it all hollow and pointless. It's just so hard to care anymore.

It would have been unthinkable, before, to have lost sight of his aims for even a moment. Before Edward intruded on his carefully laid plans there was nothing for the Colonel but his goals, working and scheming to place himself as high up the military chain as he was able; his own mission of reparation for the atrocities of Ishval. It had been the thing that consumed his life, the worthiest goal he could imagine, until a brilliant young man under his command cornered him with his own fears and demanded his aid. Edward had become his atonement, and with him gone only duty to his subordinates keeps Mustang returning to his office each day.

_Hawkeye believes in you_, he chides himself, turning himself back to the task at hand and straining to make sense of the words on the papers. _Don't let her down_.

_Not like you let Edward down..._

He stifles a curse, clenching his eyes shut against a sudden stinging.

What's the use of striving to be Fuhrer, if he's helpless to save even one man's life?

* * *

Breda arrives a few days later (Friday? Saturday? He thinks it must be Saturday, because the trains run later, and Hawkeye's demeanor is fractionally less strict.), coming ahead of the rest and Mustang sends Falman to meet him at the station. The mission is nearly over; the cult has been broken up, the Resurrectionist himself is assumed among the dead in the cave.

Armstrong will be bringing the revenants and their families back to Central with Havoc's team, although he concedes in his communications with the Colonel that he is uncomfortable with the revived and from his descriptions, Mustang can hardly blame him. Undeniably living, and yet seemingly unaware; they more closely resemble something from a ghost tale or horror fiction than anything recognizably human, and he dreads seeing them for himself.

When Lieutenant Breda enters the office he's bearing a stack of reports and a burden of guilt, both of which rightfully belong to the Colonel. There is also a large box, which he sets on the Colonel's desk with something approaching reverence, his sharp eyes misted with sorrow.

"I brought this back for you, sir. All of Fullmetal's belongings. I know they didn't have any family, but I thought maybe you'd want to return them to his mechanic friend. If we let the Mortuary Affairs Office handle it, they'd just toss it all in evidence, and it was the boss'..." The heavyset man pauses to clear his throat. "It just wouldn't be right, sir. He was one of us."

He isn't ready for this. How could he ever be ready for this? There's a terrible pressure building within him as he stares at the box; such a small container for all of a man's worldly possessions, a tiny legacy for a man who was larger than life. "Thank you," Mustang murmurs faintly, unable to speak too loud for fear his voice will splinter and tear in his throat. "I'll see to them."

He barely notices the man salute and leave, his attention riveted on the package atop his blotter. Hawkeye materializes at his side, calm voice murmuring something about procedures and formalities, and steers him to her desk where a single form is waiting. He can't read it, his eyes have mutinied and won't focus on the words, but he fills it out, his signature barely recognizable. The Lieutenant lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, an uncharacteristic moment of commiseration, before taking the form from his slack grip and moving briskly to notarize and process it.

Breath shudders out of him, harsh and uneven His mask is slipping. He can feel it crumbling; any minute now it is going to break, and he cannot be here when it does. Pushing himself to his feet, he clears his throat, drawing Hawkeye's eyes to his.

"I'm leaving for the day," he announces, and somehow his voice stays level as he speaks. "It will be easier to sort this out at my home. You may forward any calls there, if something arises."

The Lieutenant pauses, assessing, then nods fractionally. "I'll call you a car, sir."

* * *

Curtains drawn to block the outside world, the box sitting like a bomb on his sofa. Glass of brandy in his hand, and Mustang takes his time sipping it. The liquor is mellow and warm, top shelf, though what he truly wishes for is the fiery bite of his scotch. Harsh and unforgiving, medicinal; cauterizing his emotions, sidestepping logic. He hasn't purchased another bottle since the night he heard of the bodies, but knows he cannot face the box's contents without even a gentleman's drink like the brandy to stiffen his courage. So he drinks the liquor slowly, trying to savor it as it deserves, and dragging out the moment when he must face the things Fullmetal left behind.

Finally his glass is empty, and there can be no more delays. The snifter is set aside, and he reaches for the box lid, fingers hesitant and twitching with indecision. An instant of pause, then he lifts the top and looks inside.

Books are the first things he sees, and he almost smiles at that. Of course there would be books; neither Edward nor Alphonse were ever without one. Two of the topmost ones belong to the library, and he lays them aside to return, hoping with grim humor that they aren't overdue. A few others are newer, probably selections from bookstores, and he moves them to another stack. There's a slim, leatherbound journal, and the Colonel has to breathe deeply before pulling that out, turning it over thoughtfully in his hands. Edward's alchemical journal; he knows it without opening the cover. As personal as a diary, and far, far more precious.

He lays that carefully on the coffee table, by itself.

The battered valise that Edward and Alphonse carried with them everywhere is there, and he doesn't bother opening it. Clothing and toiletries; he'll look at it later, but it's not important now. Below it there's a glint of silver.

He draws out a silver watch by its chain, embossed dragon on its cover winking in the muted light. Fullmetal's mark of authority as a State Alchemist, and he wonders briefly why it should be in this box until he realizes that Edward knew what he was doing by leaving it behind. He encloses it in his fist, feeling the tick of the mechanism against his palm, steady as a heartbeat...

...remembers Edward's heartbeat against the flat of his hand, the heat of his body in the bed upstairs...

...that fire-gilt body, strong and needing beneath his own, spread upon the floor mere feet from where he now sits...

His eyes close tight, and he grips the watch for a long moment before laying it on the table next to Edward's journal. Mustang traces its edge with one finger in a solemn gesture, reluctant to relinquish contact with it and when he finally draws his hand back, the moment hangs there like severance.

The room feels colder as he stares at the collection on the table, wrapped in the curtained dimness. Neat little piles. The inadequate sum of Edward Elric's existence, sorted into tidy categories that could never have held him while he lived. A few books, a silver watch- none of this can possibly encompass the richness of the short years of Fullmetal's life. Mustang has to look away.

He slips his hand back into the box, fumbling toward the bottom. Something soft snags on his fingertips, and he closes his hand around it automatically, retrieving it from the depths of the container. Heavier than expected, it drags for a moment, then spills free; bright color dulled by the poor lighting, and every molecule in the room seems to wheel and then stop.

Spread across his knees: Edward's vibrant red coat. Torn and stained, crowned serpent clearly emblazoned across the back, still smelling of its owner, and the inane thought catches in the Colonel's mind, _it's so cold out there. Fullmetal needs his coat, he'll be freezing._

But...

A shudder ripples up his back and Mustang buries his face in the folds of the coat, blocking out the chilly room, the meager belongings in their orderly piles. The clock ticks quietly from the other room, a makeshift heartbeat murmuring in the stillness, and all he can do is breathe against the red fabric. Crush it against his chest, rough cloth against his cheeks; machine oil and sweat. Edward...

_Forgive me, Edward, I loved you, forgive me..._

_

* * *

  
_

Night is creeping past the curtains and wrapping the room tighter in darkness when the Colonel repacks everything back into the box except for the library books. He carries it all to his guest room and shuts the door, carefully blocking out the reminders just as he's compartmentalized every other aching memory from his past. Sealed away, but even out of sight he can still feel them there, throbbing beneath the surface.

There is no room in the house where he does not feel those broken remnants of Edward's life pressing into him. He retires to his kitchen, tries to eat, but he cannot escape how they jostle against him, crowding against every mundane memory he has made in his home. They chase him out in the center of the backyard, shivering against the wind, but even there he recalls the brown stain of spilled tea, the coarse rub of red fabric, ripples of firelight on golden skin...

If he thinks about it too long, he's certain he will only regret what follows. The city must be big enough for him to hide from himself, and he pauses only long enough to snatch his keys and his greatcoat before storming out the front door with no clear destination in mind. Away, he thinks, simply away. I cannot think about this any longer.

He passes a few of his regular haunts without stopping, because the thought of speaking to anyone is unbearable. Anonymity is what he craves, to blend in with a faceless crowd and be subsumed by them. But each somber dive he finds himself outside holds little interest to him; he is lost and aching, but it soon comes to him that drink will hold no answers tonight. Perhaps it never has. Grimacing, he turns away.

Up one street, down another; endless motion churning his thoughts to a vacant blur. He settles into a long, steady stride, letting the movement dull the sharp edges of the emptiness that fills him. This is what he desires; not alcohol, not reflection, but oblivion. To not think, to move and keep moving, outrunning his thoughts and hoping that by the time he tires he will have driven them to exhaustion as well. Then perhaps he can sleep under the same roof as Edward's belongings.

After a couple hours of aimless wandering he finds himself at a park, seated on a bench by a frozen lake and staring with dull, grieving eyes at its rimed surface. There used to be swans here, he thinks. Huge and white, graceful, and beautiful as only wild things can be. Great, fierce birds, and what could have stirred them from their home? Where could they have flown?

He passes a shaking hand across his face. What utter foolishness, to be sitting out here at night in winter, mourning things that have moved on. Haven't you anything better to do?

Mustang lets the sigh slip loose, deflated and oh, so tired. No, I haven't. Nothing better at all. He sits a bit longer before rising, stiff from the cold, to begin the slow trudge back home.

* * *

His front door is unlocked.

The Colonel stands on the porch for a moment, staring with a furrowed brow at the handle. He was sure he had locked his door, although his thoughts had been elsewhere and he now cannot recall doing so. But he's never failed to secure his home before, and the lapse sends a frisson of unease down his spine.

He hesitates a moment longer before wearily conceding the possibility of misjudgment. Perhaps he _did_ forget. It's not beyond reason; he was hardly thinking rationally when he went out. Still, he takes a moment to slide his gloves on, flexing his fingers in the abrasive material before pushing the door open and entering, because caution is a lesson that never leaves him. Letting the door close quietly at his back, he slides down the hallway with soundless stealth.

Almost instantly he knows that something is wrong. There are no lights on, but he can hear a hiss and crackle that only comes from fire, and careless as it may have been to leave his door unlocked, he would _never_ in his most distracted moments leave a fire burning unattended. _Arson, _is his furious thought, and he steps into the doorway of his living room with hand poised, fingers tensed, mind already focusing on the concentrations of gases.

In the hearth, fire licks hungrily at the logs, casting a warm, cheerful glow into the darkened room and creating long shadows that reach toward the Colonel where he stands in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears. His desk is untouched, papers still stacked neatly alongside a coffee mug, and likewise the bookshelves with their rare volumes are as he left them, but as his gaze tracks across the room a shadow near the fireplace uncoils, moving, and he raises his hand higher.

Flames leap in the grate, battering against the stones, for an instant bathing the room in light, and Mustang glimpses black, gold, the shine of metal and suddenly there isn't enough air in this room to breathe. The fire all but dies, collapsing in on itself just as the Colonel's lungs are contracting into useless clenched fists in his chest, and for a moment all he can think is- _no. Don't taunt me, anything but this, it's not possible..._

The ghost, the illusion rises shakily to its feet, and a rasping voice cuts through the silence of the room.

"Sorry for breaking in, but I was cold."

_...impossible, what kind of sick joke..._

Yet the specter remains, familiar as a recurrent dream, tantalizingly close and something isn't right but Mustang is almost willing to ignore that if only it means he can believe...

Stars flash in his vision. _Breathe_. _And again._

"I have your coat," he finally chokes, and stumbles into the room.

Silhouetted before the fireplace; Edward, real and blessedly alive. Edward, who stares at him with large, wary eyes, watching the Colonel fumble for a seat on the sofa before sitting also, at the other end. Fullmetal moves tentatively, almost as though he's afraid to commit to any motion, and unease flickers through Mustang at the uncharacteristic diffidence. As much as he wants to reach out, throw himself on the young man and reassure himself that this is not just a cruel delusion, instinct warns him back. Observe, it whispers, and be cautious.

Gold eyes flicker his way, and the Colonel takes in how metal fingers curl against the sofa's cushioned arm, tracing shapes against the fabric. He sees the way Edward hunches forward in his seat as though he's in pain, or attempting to protect himself against an impending blow and Mustang wishes for nothing more than the ability to erase that defensive posture. _You've never been so fearful before. You should should never have to be afraid in my home._

Aware of Fullmetal's cautious gaze upon him, the Colonel tries to remember how to speak, throat filled with gravel. "I- we thought you were dead. What happened? Where were you?"

Edward simply blinks at him, as though he doesn't understand the question.

Now that he's able to look at him objectively, the Colonel realizes that Fullmetal's appearance is appalling. He's battered, though that's almost his status quo; constantly beaten by his work, and he's never been careful with himself. Dirty blond hair is pulled back in a high pony tail, and there's a jagged gash healing on his forehead, the skin around it showing the faint olive yellow tones of a fading bruise. But that contusion and the deep purple crescents beneath his eyes are the only color left in a face pale as sand. Every vestige of softness or youth has been scoured away, leaving behind sharp angles that catch the light in harsh relief and make him appear indescribably old and tired.

"Edward," he repeats, quietly but with urgency, "where have you been?"

The young man's head dips, bangs falling forward to shutter his face, and for a moment the Colonel thinks Fullmetal is avoiding the question. But to his surprise Edward begins trembling, arms circling himself and clutching at his sides as though to keep himself intact.

"I fucked up." His voice cracks in deep, shuddering gasps from behind the curtain of hair. "I fucked up, I fucked it up, I didn't mean to, didn't..." Heavy breaths, as though he's been running, and Edward makes a strange choking sound. "It's my fault, all my fault, I fucked up again..."

The Colonel has seen Fullmetal riding the rough edge of a faultline down his soul, dancing unerringly on the lip, unafraid and still strong. He's seen him clutching the shards of his psyche so tight that his palms should have bled, and still he could summon that razorwire grin, sharp enough to pierce right through the Colonel's every defense. Edward has made an art of hanging grimly onto every piece of himself, no matter how often it is blown apart, with a determination so powerful that it's frightening.

This isn't that man.

This man huddles in on himself, shaking until his automail rattles, and with dreadful certainty Mustang knows that this time he's not holding anything together. The young man who never shows weakness, never allows himself the luxury of indulging any emotion but anger... Edward isn't breaking, he's _broken_, and the pieces will be irretrievably lost if they can't be reassembled quickly.

"I killed them," A desolate whisper, barely audible. "They're dead, and it's my fault, I didn't mean to. Fucked up, didn't mean to, I swear..." The agonized litany mumbles itself into silence, and Mustang's heart shrinks inside him._ Oh god._

"Edward." One hand reaches out, stroking the bowed neck underneath the fall of hair, and although Fullmetal shivers at the touch, he doesn't move. His skin is almost feverish hot beneath the Colonel's fingers, and Mustang murmurs his name over and over, a soothing mantra.

Something inside the automail gives an unhealthy whine as Edward lifts his hand, pressing his face into the metal palm. "Jus' wanted to keep him safe. That's all. Didn't want anybody else hurt, and I fucked it up. I..." swallows hard, Mustang can feel it through his fingertips, "... I ended up killing them. Both of them."

Edward's grief spears through Mustang as though it were his own; cries of children, infernos melting sand to glass and the thought drifts hopelessly through him, _I wanted to spare you this. I never wanted you to have blood on your hands_. "Benny?" the Colonel asks gently, and Fullmetal's head jerks in a nod.

"Dropped the fucking ceiling on him," he replies with barely any voice at all. "Couldn't think, it all happened so fast, and oh _fuck_, I fucked up..."

His own breath is coming in shudders now. "But you're still alive, Edward."

Fullmetal's entire body seems to seize under his hand. "Death got the wrong one again," he rasps.

"Don't even... don't say such a thing!" _I thought you were dead, you don't know what I was willing to give to keep you from being lost, don't you_ dare _think I'll let you go again..._

Edward finally lifts his head, yellow gaze full of sharp edges. "I killed that alchemist," he states, every word coming out clipped and ice-edged. "I killed some poor kid who never did anything wrong but hang around me. I'm a fucking _murderer_, Mustang. The one thing I didn't ever wanna do, and now..." his face crumbling, those brilliant, beautiful eyes cracking and spilling out his soul for anyone to see, "now I'm the same as the rest of them. Just another killer."

"You're nothing like them." Mustang cups Edward's jaw, forcing the younger man to face him as he tries to look away. "What happened down there was an accident. You're no murderer."

"Then what am I?" Edward asks, voice thin and fractured and so vulnerable.

"Human," he answers, thumbs brushing Edward's cheeks. "Fallible," whispered against eyelids fluttering closed. "Forgivable."

And Mustang kisses him.

His mouth moves gently over warm lips, slack with shock, and even though he knows he's crossed a line, Mustang can't wish to take it back. Weeks of interminable waiting, not knowing Fullmetal's fate, all the fearful hoping and imaginings... Edward can rage, shove or even strike him, but the Colonel will never regret _this_. Breathing Edward's breaths, tasting him, his body real and alive and so close.

But Edward doesn't push him away. He makes a soft, startled sound against the Mustang's mouth, his body stiffening for a moment. Then mismatched hands are twisted in the Colonel's uniform, tugging him closer, demanding. Edward kisses him back without finesse, all greedy, unschooled desperation and it is the single most perfect moment that Mustang has ever known even as he recognizes the hunger driving his companion.

_Self-loathing. Disbelief. A desperate, intangible need that will never be filled; searing by day,the cold mistress he takes to bed every night. Inescapable. _

"_Roy... " Pity and compassion in the bespectacled gaze, and he could just _break_ from that look alone..._

His fingers are threading through the bright fall of hair, Edward's lips yielding with an almost disturbing degree of submission before the gentle invasion of his tongue. Mustang deepens the kiss, letting one hand trail down the curve of Edward's back until it rests with fingertips dipping just beneath the waistband of those leather pants. In response the young man arches against him, breaking away from the kiss only long enough to pant brokenly _please, please_, and there's no need to ask what for.

Carefully disentangling himself from grasping hands, the Colonel drops his head to nuzzle at the curve of Edward's neck. "Come with me," he murmurs, planting a line of kisses along the hard ridge of collarbone before rising. Wide gold eyes stare at him in hazy confusion for a moment and then Edward also stands, taking the outstretched hand offered to him. His steps are uneven, limping, and Mustang almost regrets asking him to tackle the stairs, but Edward deserves better than the floor. He lets the younger man ascend the steps before him, arms wrapped around his waist, face pressed to the back of his neck, assisting and caressing all at once.

Hallway, bedroom, and Edward sprawls sideways across the mattress as though it's his own personal territory, and Mustang thinks that if it wasn't before, it is now. He dips his head, takes another kiss from those accommodating lips before focusing on removing the young man's clunky boots, the intricate belt. Straddles his thighs, teeth and tongue ravaging Edward's neck while his hands push back the black jacket, slide under the shirt below. Skin against his palm, heart racing beneath his fingertips, and Mustang has never wanted anyone more.

Shirt off, tight pants peeled away. Edward, naked on the bed, while Mustang curls alongside him fully clothed, touching, stroking, kissing. He takes his time worshiping Edward's battered body; tongue painting graceful arcs across the taut, quivering stomach, hands conducting pilgrimages across the broad chest.

He's fucked Fullmetal before, but never taken the time to explore his body; teasing a nipple to firmness between his lips or tracing the delicate whorl of an ear. Never followed the line of each pale scar with his lips, never sucked gently on Edward's fingertips until he moans with desire. But tonight he does; as carefully and thoroughly as he is able Mustang reaffirms Fullmetal's worth, his humanity, and thanks every deity ever conceived for this second chance to make things right.

No one has ever made love to Edward Elric. But he means to correct that mistake.

Mustang reluctantly separates himself from Fullmetal's body in order to begin shedding his own clothing, making quick work of his jacket and shirt, fumbling with his belt and pants in his eagerness. All the while Edward watches him with distant, soft eyes, uncharacteristically quiet and every barrier down. Splayed and pale against dark blue blankets, and Mustang thinks he can still see every jigsawed fracture set into the young man's soul by this latest mission.

"_You can't- you can't touch me. Not after what I did. Women and children- oh _god_, what have I done?..."_

_Maes looks at him, eyebrow cocked, and then pulls him into an embrace anyway..._

He doesn't keep lube, but there is lotion on the bedside table. Fingers slicked, lips pressed to the concavity of hip, and Edward gasps and arches at the first tentative touch. "F-fuck," he whispers, ragged-voiced in the silence of the room. "Please, Mustang, please jus'..."

Press and pull, and he only hesitates a moment before lowering his head and taking Edward awkwardly into his mouth, uncertain. The young man stifles a curse, back bowing upward and Mustang has to struggle to keep from gagging at the intrusion. But he's determined, holding out until the reflex fades before relaxing his mouth and sliding down further, sucking his way back up.

It's the first time he's ever done this and Mustang is fairly certain he's doing a poor job of it, but Edward shifts and moans in hedonistic abandon, blankets fisted in his hands. A second finger slips in after the first; Mustang runs his tongue around the flaring head, and Edward howls and thrusts and comes hard enough to make the Colonel's own erection pulse even as he chokes against the flood in his mouth.

He takes a moment to collect himself as Edward pants through the tremors of his orgasm, before moving to his knees and squeezing out more lotion. He can't quite contain a moan as he touches himself, his body keyed to intolerable tension and screaming for Edward. As if in response those fierce gold eyes open to him, glowing catlike in a face relaxed but still filled with need. Whines and clicks, as an automail hand extends toward him. "Fuck me," Edward murmurs, invitation and demand mingling in the words. "Please."

They come together slowly, Mustang sinking into him with deliberation while heels drum at his back, urging him on. Lower lip clenched between his teeth, Edward thrums with impatience, muttering, "Fuck me, fuck me, more, c'mon..." but the Colonel will not be rushed. In, in, in, and settle there, holding still and just feeling the clench of muscles around him, the heartbeat rattling against his chest, the heat rising from Edward's body. This is completion, redemption; it is the closest to grace that Mustang has ever come, and he sends up a prayer to whatever may be listening that Edward is finding a similar solace.

Slowly, carefully, he begins to move. A groan rattles up from the depths of Edward's throat, and he hooks his legs tight around the Colonel's waist. "Fuck me!" he growls, arching. Hands claw at the flesh above, frantic. "Shit- _please_! I need-!"

Mustang silences him with another kiss, relishing the enthusiastic response. But his pace doesn't change; deep strokes, nothing like the violent thrusts that Edward wants.

"_I don't deserve..."_

_Large, warm hands on his cheeks. Maes regards him with sad affection. "Roy. You're more than just the sum of your sins."_

"I won't hurt you," he finally breathes, lips brushing over cheekbone, temple. "You've been hurt enough, and I won't give you any more pain." He lifts Edward's hips, presses in deep until his lover spasms and cries out. Bruising fingers dig into his shoulders, and Mustang smiles. "But I'll make it go away."

He plunges forward, on knees and elbows, hands tangling in gold-blond hair, cock stroking repeatedly against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Kissing has become impossible; Edward is gasping open-mouthed whines at the ceiling as Mustang rocks into him, gentle and unhurried. "It's not about punishment," he murmurs. "It's not meant to hurt. It's meant to be good," _press and gasp and _there_, "_and I want to be good to you, Edward."

The other man makes an odd sound, a harsh whimper that flutters in his throat. Mustang just presses kisses along his neck, groaning a bit as he feels the tremors rippling through the body beneath him. He can feel his own climax building as Edward begins to move with him, finding the rhythm, matching the pace and meeting every thrust. For a few incalculable moments they are as one, sharing pleasure so intense they can barely breathe, and then Edward bucks against the Colonel, crying out as he spills between them. Mustang only manages a couple more strokes before he too is caught in the throes of orgasm, trembling in the mismatched arms wrapped around him.

They're both sweaty and messy, but Mustang finds he has no desire to pull away. Instead he shifts slightly so that he can plant lazy kisses along Edward's shoulder. He's never felt such contentment before, smiles against the scarred junction of skin and metal, and the young man makes that strange, guttural noise again.

"Edward?" He lifts his head, and is momentarily horrified by the painful grimace on his companion's face. Gold eyes roll and he makes that terrible sound again, and with a shock Mustang realizes that Edward is weeping, face tearless and dry. The small body beneath him begins to shiver as grief consumes him, and the Colonel pulls the young man tight against his chest, cradling him in the protective circle of his arms.

"It will be alright," he soothes, as Edward is wracked by his empty sobs, face buried in the Colonel's shoulder. Mustang presses his cheek to the top of that bright head, chest aching as he shares his companion's mourning. "It going to be alright now."


	11. Chapter 11

Edward breathes deeply, his sleeping body curled against the Colonel's side, one loose fist tucked beside his open mouth. The hoarse gasping subsided some time ago, drifting into exhaustion and the smooth, slow rhythm of slumber. Mustang holds him close, sometimes awake and sometimes dozing, weariness and relief blending to a strangely energized somnolence that keeps him just on the verge of rest but never tipping completely into it. His side twinges from lying with the weight of automail and densely muscled flesh pinning his arm, but he's reluctant to move. Not when moving risks waking the young man cradled against his chest, finally resting quietly.

Fullmetal has known so little peace in his time. And yet throughout his trials he has remained strong, and Mustang has depended on that strength, and its constancy. He has relied on the purity of Ed's soul, untouched by the filth and evil of the world, lit by the same idealism that once burned in Mustang's own heart.

Despite all the terrible things Fullmetal has done and seen, he had endured. And unlike Roy Mustang, he had seemed unbreakable.

But here, gathered in his arms is the evidence that Edward is just as human as he. Just as capable of slipping, and being hurt, and though Mustang had caught him last night, their quiet hiatus won't last. It was pain that left him vulnerable last night, but the Colonel has no illusions; Fullmetal's stubborn self-reliance will reemerge, and once the shock clears he will pull away. Mustang is sure of this, and yet he is surprised at how the inevitability pinches his heart tight in his chest.

_When did I become so needy, _he wonders_. I used to be as independent as Edward, as contemptuous of anyone who would attach themselves to me. Where did that go?_

Vanished, fled. Escaped through a decade-old door flung wide by accident. Leaving behind a frightened, pale thing that didn't know how much it craved the touch of one who understood.

When he lies with Edward, the desert is so far away.

But Mustang shies away from those thoughts, too close to the ones he wants to avoid. Clings to the lithe body next to him, as though he could pull this transient moment into permanence by the force of his grip. With his face buried in warm, silken hair, inhaling Edward's scent until it envelopes him, he can imagine, for a little longer, that this may yet last.

But it can't, won't. In his arms, Edward shifts just slightly, awakening. Thick lashes beat before parting to reveal gold eyes still dulled by sleep. Slow, lazy blinks, and then the young man stiffens as he realizes where he is, and the Colonel reluctantly loosens his hold, allowing Edward to wriggle from his grasp. Automail rasping, Fullmetal props himself up on his elbows, bright gaze dimmed with suspicion and embarrassment. The aura of grief still hangs about him, muted now, and the cracks that had been so evident earlier are sealing before Mustang's eyes.

"How are you feeling?" Mustang asks, voice pitched low, and his fingers twitch with the suppressed desire to brush away the matted tumble of hair that covers half of Edward's face and fit his palm to the curve of a warm cheek. But Fullmetal draws his head back, skittish, as though he's read something of the Colonel's thoughts from his expression.

"I'm fine," he replies, the lie obvious, and Mustang sees that although the fractures may be hidden, they still reach deep. He has to ignore the way his soul resonates in sympathy with Edward's pain. He understands that silent suffering all too well.

"All right then," he agrees quietly.

An awkward silence builds in the bedroom, as Fullmetal studies the ceiling and Mustang watches him from the corner of his eye. There are many things they still need to address, he thinks, and he's considering how to broach the topics when Edward suddenly lurches forward with a curse on his lips. Throwing the sheets back, the battered alchemist flings himself from the bed, nearly toppling to the floor in the process, and begins snatching articles of clothing and dragging them on at breakneck speed.

Mustang jerks upright, mouth opening to speak, but before anything can come out Edward turns to him, his eyes filled with the panicked glaze of a trapped animal. "I have to go," he pants, pulling hard as his trousers snag on an uncooperative metal joint. "I have to leave, Al-"

"Where is Alphonse?" Mustang interjects, the name striking him with sudden guilt. _Why didn't I ask sooner? _Though of course Edward would never have come to him this way if his brother was missing, or endangered. "Fullmetal?"

"Hotel," Edward gasps. "I left him there, waiting for me. I didn't think I'd be gone so long, he'll be worried..."

The confirmation comes as a relief, and Mustang lets out a long sigh. "You have no idea how relieved the office will be. Everyone was so worried about both of you. After Alphonse disappeared- Edward- wait, stop," he calls, as Edward yanks his shirt from under the bed. "You can't leave like this."

Translucent eyelids and lurid bruises, automail still making its high-pitched protests. The couple hours of sleep he took at the Colonel's side have refreshed him, but Edward still looks haunted and fragile. Even the angry glare he shoots at the Colonel is more desperate than intimidating.

"I can do whatever the fuck I want," he snaps. "Al's waiting for me."

"Be reasonable," Mustang tells him. "I have a phone. Call the hotel, let him know you're safe. I'll drive you there in the morning myself."

If anything, the offer seems to frighten Fullmetal. "I can't stay!" he growls, nervous as a stray dog worried that a kick will come with the proffered hand. Shaking his shirt right-side out, he pulls it on with undue haste, ball bearings in his arm screaming like wheels on gravel, shrilling out a strident complaint. He looks ready to flee without shoes or coat, all defensive teeth and flurry of excuses.

"Fullmetal," Mustang insists. "Don't go."

One boot pulled on, and Edward peers warily at him through the shield of his hair. He doesn't move to escape, nor does he remove the boot. He simply watches Mustang closely, his breath coming in heaves; the Colonel can see the quick heat building in his face and realizes that for once, Edward doesn't know what he wants. Or rather, is pulled by two opposite desires.

"Equivalent exchange," he breathes, daring to hope. "I've never asked before. Stay, tonight."

Edward says nothing, his gaze dropping to the floor as he considers the request, and Mustang prays that he's not misread that moment's hesitation. But when has Edward ever paused when it concerned Alphonse? If it's only his imagination, if that moment of indecision wasn't real, nothing will keep Fullmetal from his brother. But if he's right...

_You want this too. Please, want this too._

...if he's right, then he's given Edward the excuse he needs to stay.

It is only when the bright head dips, submitting, that Mustang relaxes. Sliding from the bed, the Colonel rummages in his dresser until he finds a loose pair of pyjama pants to pull on. When he turns around, Edward is still sitting in the same crumpled position on the floor, one boot on, automail foot bare and gleaming. Tamping down the immediate swell of protective tenderness that rises, he grasps at the most innocuous courtesy he can offer the young man to defuse the tension filling the room. "Would you care for some coffee?"

Edward mulls it over, finally giving an offhand shrug without turning. "Sure," he mumbles, as though being offered coffee at two in the morning, half-dressed on his commanding officer's bedroom floor, were the most mundane of occurrences.

"I'll bring it up." Mustang tells him, remembering the painful limp in the young man's gait; a sure indication of more automail damage. Gesturing to the telephone at his bedside he adds, "Feel free to call Alphonse while you wait."

That elicits a reaction; Edward's head lifts, focusing on the phone. "Yeah," he says, a hitch in his voice. "I don't want him to worry about me."

Giving Fullmetal privacy to call his brother, Mustang retreats downstairs, wincing as his bare feet slap across cold tiles, the chill in the air raising gooseflesh on his arms. The darkness of the kitchen looms before him and he fumbles for a light, feeling for just a moment the echo of the interminable days of Edward's absence in the midnight silence. But the glow from the lamp overhead dispels the momentary emptiness; he pauses in the doorway, breathing slowly and absorbing the reality of Fullmetal's return once again.

Moving carefully across the room, he pulls the percolator out and fills it with water, measures out grounds and dumps them in the basket. Setting it on the stove to heat, he retrieves two mugs from the cabinet, while trying to not to listen to Edward's voice floating down through the silence as he argues with the hotel night clerk. "_Yes_, for fuck's sake, he's awake! And _yes_, it's important! Just go knock on the goddamn door already!"

Fullmetal sounds so close to his usual, cantankerous self that the Colonel nearly smiles, and were it not for the breakdown he'd witnessed earlier, he could almost believe that the only damage Edward has incurred from the mission is physical. His humor fades, however, as he recalls the pale, trembling man who'd met him in his den, the splayed, small figure on his floor. So much pain. He hasn't managed to spare the young man anything.

But he's alive, Mustang reminds himself. He sets out the sugar bowl and fumbles in a drawer for a spoon, the familiar motions soothing even as they jar against the unusual circumstances. Making coffee in the middle of the night to drink with a man returned from the dead, the silhouette cast in grief against his heart for weeks ... the spoon drops to the floor in a tinny clatter, and his hand shakes as he retrieves it.

After fearing the worst, _believing_ the worst, for so long, just hearing that raspy voice upstairs (now speaking quietly; Al must have been put on the phone) is enough to fill his stomach with an aching, peculiar lightness. He had nearly been reconciled to its loss; devastated and bereft. But he should have remembered that, for the Elrics, miracles are commonplace.

Perhaps he can get used to miracles.

_I need to let Breda know_, he realizes. He would want to know, right away, about Edward and Al's return. And Hawkeye of course, and the rest of the office staff. He will have to see if he can reach Havoc and Armstrong before they board the train back; the good news can only improve the long journey back. Calling off the word of Fullmetal's death- never before has he been _excited_ at the prospect of additional paperwork...

The thought abruptly sobers him. Of course the officers close to Edward will be overjoyed at his reappearance, but the Colonel's superiors will very likely take an altogether different view. Their first assumptions will be dereliction of duty, desertion, not simple relief that Amestris' most brilliant alchemist has survived a terrible ordeal. One follows orders, or does not, and few mitigating circumstances are accepted. From them, punishment would await Fullmetal, not healing.

Well. It's not as though he hasn't covered for Edward many times already. Focusing on the problem before him, Mustang settles into a chair at the table, concentrating on making plans for damage control while Fullmetal's voice mumbles in the back of his consciousness.

It's much later when an uneven, halting tread and a mechanical whine rouses him from his thoughts, and Mustang lifts his head in surprise, suddenly aware that the percolator is at a rattling boil behind him, while Edward watches him with a cautious, guarded stare. Caught off guard, he blinks and rises, pulling out a chair for his companion. "You didn't need to bother coming down," he says. "I told you I'd bring it up."

Edward growls at his approach. "I'm not hurt. I don't need to stay in bed, like some invalid."

"I wasn't suggesting anything of the sort." He tries to keep the concern from his eyes and voice, but can't quite control the corners of his mouth. "Don't you ever just rest?"

The young man gives an irritable snort, easing himself into the offered chair. "Don't have time for that."

Mustang removes the coffee from the stove, hoping that, despite his lack of attention, the brew will still be palatable. "It's worth making time for," he remarks, filling the mugs on the counter. Setting one down in front of the other man, his mouth twists wryly, and he nods at the beverage. "Hope it's okay."

Flesh hand wrapped loose around the mug, Edward's head tips forward to catch the steam and aroma from the coffee full in the face as it rises. His eyes close as he inhales, and the smile that slowly curves his mouth looks almost genuine. "Thanks," he murmurs.

For a few minutes they sit quietly, sipping at the coffee- a little strong, but bracing. The silence between them isn't quite companionable, but it's comfortable, and gradually Edward relaxes, although the keenness of his gaze is still clouded with sorrow and guilt. Mustang can't help but wonder how long it will take to cleanse it from his eyes.

"Gotta get train tickets tomorrow," Edward says abruptly, flexing his arm in a squeal of servos. "This thing's about shot, and I might as well get the beating over with. Winry's really gonna kill me this time." He shifts in his chair, casting a speculative glance up the stairs. "I should've had Al go pick up some tickets, that way we could leave on the early train..."

"Fullmetal." The young man flicks a look back at him, frowning a little at the serious tone the Colonel forces himself to use. "You're going to have to remain in Central for a while."

Edward opens his mouth to protest, an angry line forming between his brows and the Colonel holds up one hand to forestall him. "Listen," he says sharply. "Call your mechanic in the morning, have her come to Central for the repairs. I'll have Hawkeye give you the forms so you can expense it to our budget, but Edward- there will have to be an accounting of your disappearance."

Emotion has bled from the young man's face; what confronts the Colonel now is a countenance of ice, implacable and cold. Mustang frowns, hand dropping into an imploring gesture. "This isn't what I'd prefer," he explains, "but regardless of why you disappeared, there are a number of higher ups who would love nothing more than to seize any excuse to discipline you. I'm sure you know that many think I give you far too long a leash."

"Fuck them," Edward spits. "What the hell do they know?" But Mustang can see thoughts moving behind the mirror of his eyes, and the worry growing there.

He takes another sip of his coffee. "For what it's worth, I quite agree. However, they have the authority to follow through on that desire. At least, so long as we give them what they need to pursue it."

Fullmetal leans back in his chair, the impassivity cracking to show the anger simmering beneath. "You always talk in damn riddles," he complains. "Just say it straight out, why don't you?"

Mustang sighs. "At the moment, Fullmetal, you are officially dead- lost in the line of duty. When you reappear at Headquarters, unharmed-" he makes a quelling gesture as Edward winds up to rant about his broken automail, "-there will be questions. Why you abandoned the mission, why you didn't report to me sooner. We have to head off those questions before they arise."

"You want to get our lies straight," Edward snorts, his voice caustic. "Very nice, Colonel."

Mustang shakes his head. "No lies, Edward. But we shall be selective about what truths we tell. It's an important distinction." He levels a direct stare at Fullmetal. "But I'm going to need you to tell me what happened first."

Edward goes very still, his expression unreadable, and Mustang aches for the necessity of forcing him to relive recent events. Very gently, he says, "I wish I could spare you this right now. Even if I could, there would still have to be a formal debriefing. At least if we do this here, it will be more private than it would at the office."

The young man glances around at the kitchen, assessing his surroundings. Weighing the modest comforts of the house, Mustang thinks, against the memory of the rigid functionality of the base. Turning back to him, Edward gives a curt nod, shadows darkening his eyes.

"Fine," he replies, but the defiance in his voice is thin, transparent. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Fullmetal sits back in his chair, head cocked to the side, eyes slightly unfocused and directed somewhere to Mustang's left as he begins speaking. He almost sounds bored, his words coming without emphasis or emotion, but the Colonel isn't deceived. Dissociation is the easiest way for a soldier to deal with painful reports, and no one who has seen a war could possibly mistake it.

Edward hurries through how he arrived on the mountain and blended in with the cultists. Though as he listens, Mustang begins to realize that, in point of fact, Edward had been incorrect about the mass of people who had banded together in the caves. They weren't truly a cult. There were no defining religious convictions among them other than a belief in the Resurrectionist's miraculous abilities, nor any real organization to the group at all. The Resurrectionist's dubious charisma held the people together; his mesmerizing sermons, and the hope he engendered that their loved ones may be returned.

There was little Fullmetal could learn in the camp. Only the most devoted were allowed into the deepest caves where the Resurrectionist performed his miracles, and although everyone descended from time to time to listen to rambling sermons in one of the larger caverns, quasi-religious rhetoric doesn't go far toward answering the question of precisely what was occurring there.

Edward just snorts when the Colonel inquires as to what was preached. "It was nonsense, half of it, and the rest was just warped from basic alchemical theory. Shit that no one with any sense would believe, if they weren't already desperate."

Desperate seems like an apt description of those gathered at the caves, Mustang concludes. Impoverished and displaced, the Resurrectionist's followers were grasping for any solace they could find. The camp offered them something to focus their hopes on, and a steady stream of assurances that their lot in life could be improved even in the face of death. An appealing illusion, he thinks, understanding the desire to be deceived. Even without living the struggle that encompassed their existence, there are still lies he wishes he could afford to believe.

Life there was difficult, despite the group's occasional forays into the town below. The rocky ground was hard and far from arable, and Mustang knows that the logistical difficulties of feeding and tending to large numbers of people in inhospitable land are troublesome even with supply lines and equipment. Instead they were forced to forage, and snare what little game they could find, and Edward speaks grimly of finding scant resources there.

"Kids, Mustang," he growls, anger showing through his impassive mask. "Crying at night because they're hungry, and their parents brought them there to starve for a fraud and a lie."

Mustang doesn't bother asking why he didn't contact Breda as planned. In his mind's eye he can already see Edward scouring the mountain to try and find something to feed the children, as though he could somehow singlehandedly alleviate the suffering brought on them. The part of him that is already putting the right spin on the tale, redacting and composing the report he will write for Edward notes; _daily duties made military contact impossible. Constant scrutiny by cult members meant that absence would arouse suspicion, and jeopardize the mission._

There's a pause in the monologue, as Edward's face reverts momentarily to the haunted expression that had met Mustang only hours earlier. But it's gone in the same instant, and he says, offhanded and hollow, "Benny was the one who found the family on the mountain."

Mustang leans forward, silently urging Fullmetal to continue. The significance of the incident is clear in the young man's stiff posture, the tremble in one hand as he reaches for his mug, but he doesn't dare encourage Edward to say more. He simply waits, watching as Fullmetal works through the obvious tumult in his mind until the alchemist once again finds his equilibrium.

Staring past the kitchen, miles away, Edward hunches in on himself. "Benny saw them while I was checking snares, and by the time I finished he was taking them to the caves. They had a..." He stops, shakes his head. "They were looking for a miracle. Fuck, you'd have thought it was a goddamn celebration when those people saw the family bringing their boy's corpse to be raised. Singing, praying... They sent people down into the deep caves with the dead boy, and the rest of us were taken to the big caverns where the sermons were held for a vigil."

Fullmetal's face is white; he looks ill, his impassivity beginning to fray. "They picked Benny," he breathes, and at the Colonel's confused frown adds, "The really devoted ones, the people who spent the most time down in the caves with that bastard alchemist. Said he was blessed, for finding the family. Said he was gonna be an acolyte." His hands abandon the mug, curling into fists on the table before him.

Mustang tilts his head slightly, brow furrowed. "Acolytes?" he repeats quietly. "I thought there wasn't any hierarchy to the group."

"It's not like that." Gaze riveted to the table, flesh fist still white-knuckle tight. "Not like there's any rank attached. The acolytes were supposedly something like apprentices to that... to _him_. Once they were chosen, they'd go into the caves, and never come out again. Everyone said they were learning the mysteries, becoming enlightened- all the usual bullshit that just means no one knows what they're up to. But they wanted to take Benny..."

The light is bleeding from Edward's eyes, and Mustang has to restrain himself from reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on his arm. He fears that a single touch could shatter the young man, or cause him to erupt unpredictably. Across the table, Fullmetal's lips curl in a silent snarl, his words coming out serrated and filled with self-loathing.

"He was scared to death. He didn't want to go, he wanted to run away, but I..." a hard swallow," I thought this was the opportunity I'd been waiting for to get close to that fucker. And so I promised him- I _promised_ him, Mustang- that I'd keep him safe. Told him I'd be close by, and that we'd see what was happening down there, and then we'd go. I'd take him with me, and we'd walk off the mountain together."

He gives a harsh croak that's not quite a sob. "And he agreed. He was scared, but he trusted me when I told him it would be okay, so he agreed."

"Edward..." Mustang hadn't intended to speak, but the utter wretchedness rolling off of the other man is overpowering; the name leaves his lips in a short gasp and he would've taken Fullmetal's hand in his had Edward not suddenly pulled back, arms clasped around himself as he huddles in the chair.

"He was just a kid." Barely more than a whisper. "Reminded me a little of Al, and I... fuck, I was the closest thing he'd had to a real family. He wasn't much older than Al was when we... when..." He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing heavily.

Watching Edward relive the events as he tells them is terrible. Mustang wants to tell him to stop, to wrap his arms around those small, trembling shoulders and pull him into the safety of his arms. Seeing the distress caused by the memories, both recent and old, brings out too many similar emotions in himself. Old regrets and grief, but he presses his own traumas down, focusing on the dilemma before him. He believes in Edward's strength, his ability to survive such weights on his soul, and so he makes himself wait for the young alchemist to gather himself once more.

"I followed them," Edward finally says, voice uneven. "Benny, and two men who took him down. There wasn't much light, and I couldn't get too close or they'd have seen me. And after a while, I started feeling funny. It was like, the longer we walked, the harder it was to think. Kept stumbling over nothing, seeing shit in the shadows... only thing I could concentrate on was keeping them from noticing I was there, and hoping I could find my way out again later." He hesitates, clearly recalling the confusion and anxiety from that evening, and silence settles into the room like an uninvited guest dominating the conversation.

After several minutes Edward still shows no sign of resuming the story, and the Colonel is reluctantly about to prompt him when the other man's eyes open, unfocused and staring. "I saw the array," he says, breaking the hush. "Benny's escorts left, and I followed him and the fraud into another, bigger cavern. It was where he did his work- his lab, if you can call it that. The array... Damn thing was drawn so sloppy I'm surprised it did anything at all. And I could barely think, everything was fuzzy and confusing by then, but even like that I knew the moment I saw it. It could never have brought back the dead. Wrong, everything was wrong... Wrong symbols, wrong lines..."

The Colonel remembers his conversations with Major Armstrong, the descriptions of the revenants; breathing, eating, moving where directed, all with the same eerie, vacant expressions. "Then how did the Resurrectionist..."

The response the question elicits is unexpected; Edward's eyes kindle with a blaze of sheer fury. Anger sears through the miasma of sorrow enveloping him, and he snarls, "Samuel Cradshaw."

Mustang blinks, surprised. "Excuse me?"

A muscle in Edward's jaw twitches. "Cradshaw. The cult leader. His name was Samuel Cradshaw, and he was a liar, and never brought anyone back from the dead. He doesn't deserve that title, I don't even want to _hear_ it. It's not fucking true."

The sudden vehemence stuns the Colonel for a moment. But he recovers quickly, nodding in acquiescence. "Cradshaw," he agrees. "But were you aware of the people we recovered, who were supposedly raised? Havoc and Major Armstrong are bringing them back to Central."

"So you haven't seen them yet." Edward's gives him a stare filled with disgust- not at him, Mustang realizes, but directed at the revenants themselves.

"No," he replies carefully. "I haven't. But Major Armstrong has sent very detailed reports, and there doesn't seem to be any doubt that they are alive."

Edward looks furious. "Alive. They're alive the same way grass is alive. An insect has more life than they do."

Something cold seems to slither between his ribs at the words. Sitting up straighter, brows stitching together, Mustang says, "But they're _alive_. Surely that's remarkable, even if the means.."

"The means?" Edward spits, appalled. "You _still_ don't get it, do you? Fuck, Mustang, it wasn't human transmutation! I _told_ you, it can't be done, and that array wasn't designed right for it anyway. What that... that fucking _prick_ of an alchemist did was create chimeras! He combined _live people_ with _corpses_. Pulled the life force of one into the other, to reanimate dead things!"

Mustang can feel the blood draining from his face. "That's monstrous."

Edward nods slowly. "And he put Benny in the circle with the body," he whispers.

The Colonel's stomach lurches at the image and he controls it with an effort, although bile burns in the back of his throat. He shouldn't say anything, should let Fullmetal continue reporting events at his own pace, but the words spill out on their own. "You didn't let that happen to him."

"No," Edward answers in the same hushed voice. "Brain felt like it was full of sand, I could barely stand straight, but there was no way in hell I was going to let that fucker turn Benny into one of those... _things_. I had to... tried..." He stops, hands lifting to cover his mouth, harsh breaths gasping out around his fingers.

For a moment, Mustang fears that Fullmetal will shatter under the weight of his grief once more, and his own chest swells tight with suppressed emotion. _This is too much_, he thinks, miserable and angry with himself for dragging the young man through this again. "Edward, stop," he says roughly, "That's enough, you don't have to-"

The metal hand drops away from his face with a squeal, and Edward stares at him with reddened, serious eyes. "I do," he answers, words coming in a stop-start stutter. "I h-have to, I owe him that." He draws a deep breath, automail grasping the edge of the table for support and sways just a bit in his seat.

_That strength. How can you bear to be so strong?_

Scrubbing at his face with his flesh hand, Fullmetal opens his mouth, closes it, sets his jaw and starts again. "W-When he put Benny in there, I didn't think, just rushed out. Told him to stop, step back and yelled at Benny to get out of the circle. Cradshaw just stared at me like he didn't even know if I was real, but he looked like the only person there who wasn't scared. He... he wasn't _anything_. I'm pretty sure he was insane. Fuck, you'd _have_ to be insane to do those things...

"And Benny still wasn't moving. Dunno if he was too scared, but I could look at Cradshaw and see that he wasn't going to stop, and Benny was still in the array, and I just _ran_ for him, but Cradshaw was closer..."

Edward closes his eyes for a moment, his face creased with terrible pain. "I wasn't going to make it in time," he says. "And my head was _swimming_, I fell and... there wasn't any other way that I could see. I-I... I had to..." Deep breath. "I transmuted the floor. Or tried to."

He hangs his head. "It didn't work."

The clock in the hallway chimes the half-hour, a deep, somber toll and Mustang starts at the sound but Edward doesn't move. Gold hair falling lank about his face, hiding his expression, voice harsh as sandpaper over skin. "I fucked up the transmutation. I did something wrong in my head, or... I don't know. Doesn't matter. Instead of pulling the floor up into a wall, I brought the whole damn ceiling down around them.

"And I tried... I don't know what I was thinking, fucking _couldn't_ think... but I tried to pull it back apart. Maybe I hoped I'd fucked up when I brought the rocks down, I don't know... but the sparks from the alchemy... the whole cave just _lit_... exploded. Threw me all the way out where I'd first seen Cradshaw, or at least I think that's where I landed. Don't know how I wasn't killed outright by the explosion. Hell," he laughs, strained and humorless, "I don't know how I lived at all. Don't even know how I got out of there. Certainly don't remember doing it. My automail was fucked, my head was stuffed with cotton... next thing I know, I'm hanging onto this big tree, puking my guts out."

Heart racing, and Fullmetal's quiet distress is contagious; he feels as though he's drowning in this misery. And as frightened as he'd been for weeks, realizing precisely how close Edward had come to perishing as well. _I can't let this happen again_, he thinks, the thud of his pulse making him feel almost ill. But the inexorable specter of duty sneers, promising _you will_.

For now- focus. Edward sits before him, awash in memory and bound by so much wretchedness that it surprises the Colonel when the other man moves, leaning back, head tilting upward. He looks exhausted; battered, beaten, and Mustang _aches_ to see him proud and defiant once more.

"I don't know how long I was out there," Fullmetal says to the ceiling. "A couple nights, I think, but I'm not sure. Felt like someone had been kicking me in the head with military boots, and I was half out of my mind and sick. Light hurt my eyes, and when I closed them everything spun..." He pulls his arms around himself at the memory. "And it was cold. I remember being cold, all the time."

"When Alphonse disappeared from the caves," the Colonel ventures, "was it because he found you?"

A ghost of a smile haunts the young man's lips. "Yeah. He wanted to take me back to town right away, but I was so sick, really fucked up."

The smile drifts away, replaced once again by sadness. "Really fucked up," he repeats. "Couldn't stop thinking about what I'd done. That I'd killed. Benny... All the people I've met who deserved to die, and I kill him. Some poor kid who just wanted a family." He knuckles one eye roughly before adding in a soft voice, "He was looking at me, you know. When the roof came down. Just looking at me. Trusting me."

"You kept him from suffering," Mustang tells him. "Even though he didn't survive, what Cradshaw had planned for him was far worse. You didn't let that happen to him, Edward."

"I could've done better. I could've done things _right_, could've-"

"Gas," the Colonel says gently. "The lower caves were full of it. Exposure can cause confusion, disorientation. It happened to some of the men clearing out the debris, after. You had no way of knowing. You're not accountable for that."

Edward is quiet for a while, brow furrowed as he thinks. But he finally shakes his head, sighing.

"Doesn't matter," he states. "Still my fault."

Mustang would argue the point, but heavy eyes roll his direction, pinning him beneath their sorrowful weight. Old, soldier's eyes, so out of place in a face still flush with youth. Mustang is mesmerized, unable to turn his head away as Edward asks, oddly gentle, "Have you ever..." Pauses, uncertain, the question hanging..

"Have I ever what?"

A half shrug. "You know. Fucked up. Like I did."

The teeth of his nightmares drag across the tender places in his mind, and his soul flinches. Mustang drops his gaze to his lap. "Yes. I have."

He can hear Fullmetal shifting in his chair. "What happened?"

He doesn't want to discuss this. It is his sin, his own demon, his past. But he knows this logic does not work in Edward's mind. To the young alchemist, equivalence must be met; he knows Fullmetal's most terrible mistakes, so Edward is entitled to his. And yet it's been so long since anyone knew the worst of him; the thought of laying himself bare is terrifying.

And Edward waits, watching him with patient, young-old eyes, and there is no choice, after all.

"Ishval," he sighs, and it is his turn to look away. "It was... you have no idea how bad it was there. No open battles, just guerrilla warfare. House to house, street to street, ambushes you prayed to walk out of." He closes his eyes, feels the heat of the sun battering down on his neck, the whip of wind and sand. "There were... You have to understand, they were fighting for their lives, and I couldn't blame them for that. They were being exterminated, no matter how the military liked to couch it. And they only wanted to live... "

The memory of the flames is still too strong. He can still see the bodies so clearly, smell the blood and scent of death. Suffocating with fear, and he finds himself struggling to breathe even in the clear air of his kitchen.

"I killed a lot of people there, Fullmetal," he says in a monotone, the words coming hard. "Men fighting for their homes, zealots fighting for their god. Children. I killed children there. Some of then carried guns, and others... " He chokes, but forces himself to keep talking. "When you're young and scared and have been attacked too many times to count, a stick can look like a gun. A doll can. And I... I burned them all."

The wound in his heart is oozing blood like dark, sticky tears; never healed, only waiting to spring fresh poisons into his soul. It hurts more than he could have imagined, more than it did when it was new, and Mustang wants to lock it away once more, let it fester in darkness where he doesn't have to see. _I don't want anyone to know. I want this to die with me._

His mouth twisting with bitterness, Mustang says, "I'm not proud of my actions. The people I was ordered to kill- most of them weren't even combatants. So you see, Edward, your error doesn't even come close to mine. One innocent, caught in the crossfire as it were, next to all the lives I took-"

"How many?"

Edward's question catches him off-guard, and Mustang looks up. "I don't know," he answers quietly. "They didn't tell us the official count. I was too young, it never occurred to me to ask. And I don't think I want to know. It's too high, too terrible to contemplate. I don't think I could bear knowing." He pauses, more upset than he can afford to show. "I don't like talking about this."

_Please don't make me remember._

But Fullmetal holds him in his gaze, frowning as he asks, "Don't you owe it to them to remember? They were human too, with their own lives. You took that away from them; you don't get to forget it."

"It's not so easy. If I were to dwell upon what I've done... I don't think I could face myself. And for my sins, I'm going to change the military, to keep anything like that from ever happening again. Even if what I've done is..."

"Unforgivable?"

"...Yes."

Silence surrounds them once more; Edward considering, while the Colonel hunches over in his chair as though trying to hide from his admission. The quiet no longer feels so comfortable; it's too raw, and filled with the shades of the dead, and the truths that hang between them point with laughing clarity at their flaws. And Mustang wishes with every breath for the simple solace of Edward's touch, and wonders when the tables turned so completely.

Automail whines as Edward pushes his mug away. "We're a fucked up pair, Mustang."

The Colonel wants to laugh, but it's just not funny at all. "Yes, we certainly are." He glances up at the young man slumping over the table, golden eyes inhabited with devastation, and sighs. "You're exhausted. We should both get some sleep."

Fullmetal says nothing, but he rises along with the Colonel and they make their careful way up the stairs, the young man growling only slightly at the assistance he's offered. At their backs, the clock chimes four and when Mustang turns back from closing the door Edward is already climbing stiffly onto the mattress. The leather pants are in a bunch on the floor, and he steps over them as he lies down at Edward's side.

The ragged course his emotions have run is taking its toll; the Colonel's eyelids are heavy and burning, but his arms are empty without Edward's warmth filling them and sleep seems a distant destination. _I wish..._, he thinks, but before he can complete the thought Fullmetal is bumping up against him, fitting himself into the contours of Mustang's body. Edward's chin nudges hard against his shoulder, and his arms close instinctively around the smaller man. Mustang sighs, one hand trailing gently up Edward's arm and feels that tenuous sense of peace returning.

Grumbling in his throat as though severely put out by Mustang's neediness, Edward allows him to touch his cheek, his hair, but doesn't quite relax beneath his hand. "Just for tonight," he says, quiet and rough. "And only 'cause we've already done this once. It's the same as it's always been, though. Doesn't mean a damn thing."

"Of course not," Mustang agrees, but his bones shiver beneath the lie. Edward sinks back into him, breath trembling against his chest, and the truth shudders against his skin. But he can let Fullmetal have his illusion of deceit, if it helps to restore his strength and will once more. He would sacrifice all of his pride, to give him that.


	12. Chapter 12

Mustang drives him back the next morning, as he promised he would. The trip is silent; Edward has been brooding since he awoke, refusing breakfast and avoiding the Colonel's eyes. Used to the young man's candid displays, he finds this new, quiet behavior worrisome, and wonders just how deep the damage goes. But Edward gives no hint, stubbornly closing himself off and remaining opaque to scrutiny.

When they arrive at the hotel, the young man finally speaks. Staring out the window, chin resting on his gloved hand, he says in a flat voice, "Al doesn't know. What we do... I don't want him to know."

Mustang studies him, the determined set of his shoulders, the half-hearted braid trailing down his back. Pride and vulnerability, and an unbending will. "Your secret is safe," he tells him, and Edward's shoulders relax just a bit. He climbs from the car without looking back, and Mustang follows.

Trailing at his heels, Fullmetal's intention to stomp through the lobby is clear to his companion, but the heavy suitcase- which he refused point blank to allow the Colonel to carry for him- bangs against his legs, making him fight for his balance with each step. Mustang considers snatching it from him anyway, but the gesture isn't worth it for the fight that would ensue. The young man's pride doesn't allow for sympathy, and would only confuse it with pity.

Up two flights of stairs, the Colonel wincing with every painful hitch of Edward's breath, until the young alchemist leads them out into a hallway, to a doorway that he pushes open with a not-quite-silent grunt of relief. There's a creak of metal from inside- "Brother!"- and Edward's face finally breaks into a tired but honest smile.

"Hey Al," he says, dropping the suitcase inside the door and limping into the room. "Sorry to make you worry."

"I wasn't worried. Not after you called from the Colonel's." The hulking armor figure turns to Mustang, still hovering in the doorway, unnecessary and forgotten. "Thank you for watching out for him sir," he says, dipping a quick bow in his direction.

"Stop it," Edward growls, tossing his coat over a chair. "You don't have to be nice to him."

"Well one of us should be, and _you_ certainly aren't," Alphonse shoots back, and his brother bristles but manages to hold his tongue.

"It was my pleasure to help out," Mustang tells the younger Elric, a wry smile twisting his lips. "It was a great relief to find out that both of you were alive and well."

A sigh rattles through the empty carapace of metal, and Edward turns around to glare at the Colonel.

"You're still here?" he says, reproachful, faintly surprised, and Alphonse moans.

"Brother! That's not nice at all!"

Fullmetal's glower melts away, only the thin crease between his brows remaining as he looks up at his brother. The aggressive stance relaxes, and left in its wake is an exhausted vulnerability that Mustang would stake all he owns that no one except he and Alphonse have ever seen. Limping over, Edward bangs one fist gently against Al's breastplate, letting his hand rest on the metal as the echoes die out. "Sorry, Al," he mumbles, staring down at the floor with eyes suddenly gone serious. The tableau holds for a moment- Edward's hand where his brother's chest should be, Alphonse's helm bowed slightly toward him- and then Edward straightens, his brusque manner returning. One more tap of his fist, and he steps away, stumbling toward the bathroom. "I'm gonna take a shower." The door clicks shut behind him, and Alphonse gives another hollow sigh.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," he says, holding his large, gauntleted hands out in apology. "Brother hasn't been himself lately."

"It's quite alright," the Colonel replies. "It's quite understandable, after all he's been through."

Alphonse pauses, horsehair plume swaying as he rocks back in surprise. "He told you about it?" His voice squeaks slightly on the last words, but underlying the bewilderment is caution, and Mustang is reminded that the younger Elric's mind is as canny as his brother's. Kind and even-tempered where Edward is brusque and volatile, but both hold their secrets close.

Nodding, he steps into the room so that Alphonse can close the door. "Edward needed someone to talk to last night," he explains as he is shown to a seat. "It was good for him to let it out." He presses down the memory of gasped sobs, frantic kisses, but they're immediately replaced with haunted gold eyes. Guilt spills through him once more, _I sent you to this. I brought this upon you. _Very quietly, and just as careful as Alphonse, he adds, "He told me about the people that died."

He knows he's being studied, weighed by inhuman eyes. And gradually, the armored figure relaxes, finds him safe. "Brother must trust you a lot," he says, his soft voice a little awed.

"I doubt that," the Colonel replies wryly. "He would've had to tell me eventually."

"But he went to you, on his own," Alphonse points out. "He didn't need to do that."

He's desperately greedy to hear this, but at the same time, Mustang wants to push aside Alphonse's assessment. The crack in Fullmetal's defenses is gone now and what's more, the Colonel wants it gone. Edward shouldn't need him. But selfishly, foolishly, he still wants him to. "I suppose not," he says after a moment, and lets it lie.

Perching gingerly on the sofa across from him, Alphonse rests his hands on his knees, almost managing to look like a child despite his massive form. "Colonel," he begins, hesitant and careful again, "I _am_ worried about my brother. Since I found him, he doesn't talk to me like he used to. I think..." he glances toward the bathroom door, listening for the sounds of the shower running before lowering his voice, "I think he's scared. But I don't know what he's scared of."

"After what he's just seen..." Mustang begins, but Al interrupts.

"Sir, Brother has always talked to me. _Always._ Even when we were young, when things were really bad, we always had each other. But this... this is different. I know Brother's moody, he's always been like that, but... now it's like he doesn't even _want_ to be happy anymore."

He remembers the hotel in Bisman, the crust of blood clinging to Fullmetal's clenched jaw. _Do you know what scares me the most?_

"Edward has never wanted to kill," the Colonel says, regret clawing at each word. "To do something like that, so unwillingly, changes a man very much. It's a hard thing to recover from." He lifts his head, staring into the glow where Alphonse's eyes should be and answering him with all the calm assurance his military years have taught him, making himself forget the wretchedness in Edward's face. "With time, he'll heal. But there's no saying how long that will take."

Alphonse is nearly as old as Fullmetal, has seen nearly all the painful things his brother has witnessed, and until now the Colonel must have held the same misapprehension as nearly everyone else, that he was as stoic as his armor made him appear. But the slump of his metal shoulders and the whispery voice are the manners of a child, frightened and unsure. "I just want him to be okay."

Empathy swells for this young man, wading through the same hells as his brother, and Mustang reaches out to clasp one hand around the broad curve of Alphonse's arm. "Your brother is the strongest man I've ever known," he tells him seriously. "He's going to be fine. For your sake, if not his own, he'll pull himself through this."

The metal is cool beneath his grip; Alphonse's shoulders tremble as though he would cry were he able, and he says, "This isn't the first time he's come to you, is it?"

The words come out of thin air, catching him sideways, and any response the Colonel might reasonably give is knocked beyond his ability to reach. _He doesn't know, Edward hasn't told him,_ babbles through his brain, but his thoughts are still liquid, slipping through his fingers as he grasps for an answer to the accusation. Alphonse's voice is light, but Mustang can sense the undercurrent of peril; clear and cold, the moment stretching like rotten ice above it, and one wrong step will send him plunging into its depths.

He is still leaning across the space between his chair and Alphonse, and Mustang recoils to his seat, letting his uncertainty hide in straightening his jacket, brushing a hand through his hair. But no wisdom alights upon him in the intervening moments and with an attempt to hold to his dignity he looks up at Al and replies, very simply, "No. It's not."

Alphonse nods, like it's no more than he expected, and Mustang waits for the condemnation he's sure will follow. But the great antique armor only rattles slightly, the younger Elric hunching in on himself even more.

"I'm his brother." The words rumble against steel plates, shudder in the hollow spaces. "He's always been able to talk to me. Why is he going to you now?"

"Perhaps," the Colonel says slowly, "it's because I see him from a different perspective than a brother."

There's a pause, then Alphonse looks up at him and Mustang can feel the weight of that fiery gaze upon him. "Pardon me sir," the young man says, "but just what the hell do you mean by that?"

That calm voice is just a little too shrewd for his comfort, hidden beneath the veneer of politeness. _ So like Fullmetal,_ the Colonel thinks, although he supposes he oughtn't be surprised. After relying solely on one another for so long, it's no wonder that they are as instinctively protective as a wolf pack. And while Edward was ever one to leap forward and snap at a threat's face, Alphonse has always hung back, watching and waiting. And there is far too much that Mustang doesn't care for him to see.

_This is dangerous ground_.

"I mean," he began, choosing his words carefully, "that he is, and always has been, extremely protective of you. And you have always been absolutely supportive and accepting of him. But sometimes people don't want simple reassurances."

Alphonse crosses his massive arms and cocks his head. "You don't reassure him?"

"I've been there," Mustang answers bluntly. "I've seen the same kinds of things as Fullmetal, and he knows I will tell him when he's wrong. He comes to me because he knows that if he really has messed up, I'll let him know. That doesn't mean," he adds, forestalling the question, "that I do that. You know your brother. His scruples are something I have never needed to question. But there are times when a person needs to hear that from someone other than those who always, unfailingly, support them."

"And you do that for him?"

Mustang sighs, lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. God, he's so tired. "I'm speculating, Alphonse. I don't know why Edward comes to me. Maybe he's just looking for the worst person he can find, to make his own perceived sins seem less. He needed someone to talk to, so I talked to him."

Alphonse mulls this over, and the Colonel thinks, _I can't. I can't justify this, it's insane. It sounds insane to me, and I know the truth of things, how can his brother accept any of it? Alphonse is smarter than that. If Edward finds out..._

A slight creak of metal, the hiss of horsehair. Alphonse's head droops downward, staring at the floor, the picture of despondence. "I just don't want Brother hurt anymore," he murmurs in that lost voice. "He hasn't been the same since I found him. And when we got here, he disappeared again, and I didn't know what to think, where he had gone." He looks up at Mustang, helmeted face an expressionless mask but the plea is right there, the pride being swallowed. "Please... if it's helping Brother, please keep letting him come talk to you. I know he isn't always very nice, but..."

"Alphonse," Mustang cuts in, ashamed of the blind trust being handed to him, hating himself for the deception. "Edward is always welcome. I will always be there if he needs me."

"Thank you, sir." There is still a tinge of sorrow in his voice, a loss beyond Mustang's understanding, only child that he is, but Alphonse's relief is evident as well. The Colonel pats his shoulder again as he stands, brushing off the thanks as he shows himself out.

* * *

He calls Breda once he arrives home, and listens to the stoic Lieutenant break down over the phone at the news of Edward's return. It's far too rare that he's able to deliver such shockingly good news, and he's near to tearing up as well by the end of the conversation, promising Breda that he'll pass on the news to the rest of his men as well. He settles for calling Hawkeye, telling her the the story and requesting that she let the others know. It still strikes too close to his own abraded nerves to keep retelling the tale, and he has other responsibilities that he must attend to.

Dusting off the old typewriter in his den, he feeds some paper into it and thinks back on Fullmetal's story from the night before. Words mingle and shift like a tavern puzzle as he twists and sorts them into the shape he wants, and after several minutes of thought he begins to type.

Years of reading Edward's reports makes it simple for him to emulate the young man's preferred methods. He even throws in a few random digressions and complaints, smiling to himself at his cleverness. But the facts of the report are chosen carefully; redactions and obfuscations revealing only the information that will satisfy the higher officers, and yet not damn Fullmetal for his disappearance.

The paper is finished in relatively short order, and the Colonel doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt for using his knowledge of the system and a bit of low cunning in support of Fullmetal. He is as loyal to the men under his command as they are to him- despite that he has never resorted to such tactics for his staff before, and Edward isn't technically loyal to him at all. But such distinctions are as easy to ignore as the regulations he's circumventing by writing this report in the first place. Somewhere along the line, Edward has infected him with his ease of rule-breaking.

The report goes with the rest of the paperwork destined to return to the office with him tomorrow. Much of it as yet undone, but he will attend to it later. For now, he makes tea, and carries it out to the porch in his back yard. Sits on the top step, cradling the cup in his palms, a light breeze ruffling his hair and finally lets the miracle sink in, without urgency or any mask at all.

Everything has changed; the day is one of shifting clouds and soft light and he wonders if he has ever stopped to truly see it before. Gone is the usual low-level stress and anxiety that has filled his life for years, blending into the backdrop until he's mistaken it for what life is. His existence had been painted out in ash, but never before had he seen that this coating could be wiped away so easily.

A peculiar lightness infects him, as familiar as a childhood memory and just as distant, and a tentative smile spreads across his face, simple, unfettered and true. Above him, the sun breaks from behind the clouds in silent joy, its glow spilling over hedges and fences and waving grass, and it's as though he has never drawn breath before.

"He's back," Mustang murmurs, heart swelling in his chest. The sunlight caresses his skin, gentle winds embracing him, and he thinks that this is what happiness must be.

* * *

Despite already knowing of his safe return, when Edward arrives at the office on Monday the result is instant pandemonium. Breda is on his feet before the door has closed, catching the smaller man in a fierce bear hug that rivals Major Armstrong's and not letting go until Edward starts to squawk. Fuery is red-faced and laughing while, surprisingly, a couple joyous tears leak from Falman's eyes at the sight of the young Major and his brother. Even Hawkeye drops her decorum long enough to welcome the two with quick embraces, and from the doorway to his personal office, Colonel Mustang watches with the scene a deep sense of satisfaction.

Edward quickly warns them off of his broken automail, pushing the happy officers toward Alphonse, who receives their attention with apparent joy. The Colonel has a moment of pride for his staff, who are just as tactile with the disembodied armor as they are with his brother, before he realizes that Fullmetal has pulled himself away from the crowd.

The young man has never been fully at ease with the boisterous camaraderie his men often display, but neither has it made him uncomfortable before. Mustang watches Edward observing the fuss about his brother, flashing a nervous smile whenever someone looks his way, his gold eyes flat and distant. It's a beggar's face at a feast, watching what he will always be denied, and the Colonel's gut rebels at the thought of Edward as an outsider.

_It's like he doesn't even want to be happy anymore. _

"Hey boss." Breda's voice, though not loud, cuts through the Colonel's thoughts, drawing his eyes up to the crowd. The heavyset man is grinning, still filled with elation. "Tell us what happened, won't ya? Was it you made that cave explode?"

Edward's entire body stiffens in response, his eyes darkening. One hand reaches back to catch the corner of Hawkeye's desk for support, and though his face remains blank Mustang catches the hitch in his breath, can almost sense the shudder of panic that grips him...

"Excuse me," he says, just loud enough to silence all the chatter in the room, and every head turns his way. Leaning against the doorframe, the Colonel eyes them all with his cool smirk firmly in place. "I'm as glad as the rest of you to see Fullmetal returned, but we still have duties that need attention. And speaking of... Fullmetal, I need to have a word with you."

His staff immediately begin returning to their work, and the Colonel turns and walks to his desk without a backwards glance at Edward. Protecting the young man from the officers' innocent curiosity is a grace he can offer, but it is worthless if Fullmetal thinks he's being shielded.

Limping steps follow him in, and Mustang flips a hand at the door. "Close that, please."

Edward complies, scowling. "What do you want this time?"

"Debriefing." As he speaks, the Colonel pulls out a few typed pages from a folder, handing them over to the young man. Brows drawn tight in confusion, Edward takes them, eyes skimming across the words.

"M'not even over this last mission, and you've got another..." His eyes widen as realization strikes, and one finger jabs at the papers. "This is... you wrote this?"

"Very astute." Mustang regards him over steepled fingers, eyes half-lidded and amused. "If you'll remember, you've already been debriefed on this mission. And there was also a certain discussion as to how the facts should be presented. Please read the document over, in case you're asked to fill in any details later."

"Of all the fucking nerve..." Edward keeps up a low level grumble as he makes his way to the couch, flopping down across it with the report still in hand. Stretching out with his feet kicked up on the cushions, he glares defiantly at the Colonel before settling in to read. It only takes a few moments before he starts upright, eyebrows climbing his forehead.

"You-" he splutters, waving the papers about his head. "You insulted yourself?"

Mustang shrugs, leaning back in his chair to regard the red-faced youth. "It would raise more than a few eyebrows if it lacked your customary vehemence."

"You called yourself a _cocksucker_!"

Lips curl into a wicked smile he can't quite control. "The best deceptions are made up primarily of truths," he replies in a bland voice.

Edward stares at him, caught somewhere between horror and amusement, mouth twitching like he can't decide if he wants to shout or snicker. A bright flush stains his cheeks, and he finally ducks his head, muttering, "Fuck, you're a sick bastard. Can't fuckin' believe..."

"Just finish reading," the Colonel says, picking up an Intelligence file and flipping it open. "I don't have all day."

From the corner of his eye, Mustang catches the long look that Edward shoots him before turning back to the report. Familiar, expected behavior for Fullmetal- but he can't escape the ache from seeing the odd, dispossessed expression that lurked in the young man's eyes earlier. It makes him feel as though, despite their own awkward connection, Edward is slipping away, and the very idea makes his mouth go dry.

The young man makes short work of the report, and the Colonel has just finished his own reading when Fullmetal snorts, tossing the report aside. "Doesn't even mention Al," he grumbles, sounding insulted on his brother's behalf. "He's what got me off of that mountain, and you don't give him any credit."

"There's a very good reason for that," Mustang tells him, whipping off a quick signature at the base of the report and placing it on the pile for Hawkeye to process. "Alphonse isn't under military purview, and so it isn't necessary to report his actions."

"Fucker, he kept me alive!" Ed growls from the sofa, and the Colonel lays his pen aside and turns his full attention to the bristling alchemist.

"I'm well aware of that," he says softly, and the gentleness of his tone makes Fullmetal sit up, scowling, but listening nonetheless. "Fullmetal, do you realize that if we were to mention that you had assistance that could have returned you to the military unit assigned to this mission, but didn't, you'd be facing a court martial for dereliction of duty before the day was out?" An exaggeration, perhaps, but better to impress upon him the seriousness of this point. "As hard as it may be for you to see it, I'm trying my damnedest to keep you from taking any more punishment for this incident than you've already received on your own. So," he punctuates this with sharp tap of his finger against the desk, "for the sake of the generals, you were ill on the mountainside and lost, and had to find your own way back to Central with malfunctioning automail."

Edward still looks irritated, but when it's placed under his nose he's never been completely immune to logic. "What if they ask about him?"

The Colonel favors him with a thin-lipped smile. "They won't. As I said, Alphonse isn't under their jurisdiction, and he won't be mentioned in any other reports."

"Huh?" Fullmetal sits forward, his face filled with puzzlement. "But Lieutenant Breda..."

"I've spoken with the Lieutenant, and I will be speaking with Havoc and his officers as soon as they arrive. Breda's report is already being redacted to omit any references to your brother."

Edward is quiet for a moment, eyes clouded as he weighs the information. "You know, you could get in a lot of trouble for that shit," he finally says. "Why would you take a risk like that?"

Don't look at him. Don't even dare. "Haven't you had enough trouble from this?" he asks lightly, keeping his eyes on the next folder in the stack, flipping it open to keep his hands occupied. "Just keep to the facts, Fullmetal, and everything will be fine."

"Colonel..."

That tone means Fullmetal isn't going to let it drop. He has to swivel his chair this time, face Edward's confusion head-on. "It is my opinion," he says, slowly, carefully, enunciating each word, "that your actions on this mission were fully justified. As your senior officer, I find it in my, and the military's, best interests in the long run to facilitate your continued service, rather than see your talents squandered in the brig because extenuating circumstances weren't taken into account." Mustang lets the smirk twitch at the corners of his mouth, and adds, "And don't bother arguing. You haven't the rank to countermand my decision."

Fullmetal makes an exasperated noise, and heaves himself to his feet. "S'pose you're gonna hold it over my head, too. Hope you aren't looking for thanks."

"If you follow orders by sticking to the report, then that will be sufficient." He waits until the young man has his hand on the doorknob, pulling it open before adding, "And there is also the matter of your restriction to Central for the time being. Please don't forget that."

Had it been a new order, the Colonel might have anticipated the reaction. But he is unprepared when Fullmetal swings around, hair flying about a face that livid with fury.

"What about my research?" he howls, loud enough that the chatter from the outer office instantly quiets. "First, you pull me out of the archive in Eastern where we were _finally_ making some progress, now you're gonna keep me from going _back? _I _need_ those books, dammit, especially if you're gonna make me sit around here and waste my time! Fuckin' _bastard_... that archive had all _three_ of Sifer's books! _ No one_ has all three, and they fuckin' cross-reference each other, so they're worthless apart!"

Still nonplussed at the unexpected vehemence, the Colonel shakes his head. "Sifer's all theoretical nonsense."

"Fuck you! Sifer is goddamn _brilliant_, and it's your own fault you can't see the genius in his theories, you never study anymore, and I need those books! Damn it, Mustang, don't hold me back on this!" Edward's eyes are mutinous, his bristling verbal attack not at all staged, and the Colonel has to wonder why Edward didn't protest the stricture when he first brought it up. Surely that would have been the right time...

But he can't ponder such things now, not with Fullmetal looking ready to defy his orders and put himself beyond the ability of the Colonel to shield. Sitting forward, Mustang fixes him with a hard stare, summoning his parade ground voice as he exclaims, "You're not going. Alphonse!"

There's a clatter from the outer room, and then the armored form of the younger Elric peers cautiously through the door. "Sir?"

"Oh no!" Edward snarls, limping toward the desk with rage on his face. "No you don't, bastard! Don't bring Al into this!"

Ignoring Fullmetal, the Colonel addresses his brother. "Would you care to do some courier work? Just some books, nothing difficult. Or dangerous," he adds, and from the corner of his eye sees Edward snap his mouth shut.

"I..." Alphonse's head turns from his brother, to the Colonel and back, clearly unsure. "Ah, what kinds of books, sir?"

"No idea," he replies easily. "Why don't you ask your brother? He's the one you'll be delivering them to." The Colonel turns to smirk at the fuming alchemist in front of his desk. "Will this suffice, Fullmetal? I should think Alphonse can be relied upon to safely bring the proper materials back to you."

Edward glares pure fury at him, before before limp-stomping his way from the office, snagging his brother's arm on the way. Hawkeye peers curiously at the Colonel through the doorway, but he waves her off with a casual smile. As angry as he is now, Fullmetal is by no means stupid, and this is familiar ground for them both. After the ranting and ire has passed he'll see that the plan isn't designed to irritate, but to assist him. Alphonse knows which books are needed for their research, and Mustang has every intention of facilitating his travel so that he can return with them quickly.

Sure enough, the following day Alphonse appears at the office, hesitant but cheerful as always. "It was hard convincing him to stay," he admits, "but Brother isn't really up to more travel. And anyway, Winry will be coming on Friday for his repairs, so he has to stay."

The Colonel greets both his willingness to go and the news of the mechanic's arrival with pleased satisfaction, and gives Alphonse the train tickets and credentials he'll need to borrow the books from the private archive. Before the younger Elric leaves, the Colonel adds, "I doubt we'll see your brother in here the rest of the week. But when you speak to him, please let him know that Second Lieutenant Havoc will be back on Thursday with the chimeras. He's excused on Friday, since he's having his automail serviced, but I expect him to report on Monday no later than one o'clock sharp."

"I'll pass it on, sir," Alphonse replies, then pauses. "May I ask you something?"

At the Colonel's nod, he steps closer, lowering his voice. "About what we talked about. Please keep an eye on him. Brother doesn't do well alone, especially now."

Concern flows through his words, and the Colonel feels something painful twist within him. _Do you know what you're asking_, he wonders. Aloud, he replies, "I promise. He'll be looked after. Just be careful, and hurry back- I'm sure he'll be happier once you've returned."

The armor bobs in a quick bow. "I will. Thank you, sir."

Once Alphonse has gone, the Colonel sits at his desk, ignoring the growing stack of paperwork at his elbow while he battles his desires. As much as his heart urges him to go, he wonders if Edward would welcome him, were he were to visit the dorms. _Call him in,_ come the selfish whispers, so tempting, _if you're too afraid to go to him. He'll come to you, if you call._

But what he wants isn't so simple as that. What he needs is too far out of his depth to reach for, beyond every promise he's bound by, and so irrevocable that it threatens to unman him. Mustang finally pushes it all aside, sends Breda and Fury in his stead, and carries himself home that evening with a dull lump in his chest. He tries to pretend that the bed is still warm from where Edward had lain days ago, but he can barely sleep for its emptiness.

* * *

Wednesday, and there are preparations to be made for Havoc's return the next day, doctors to be assigned and briefed ahead of the revenants' arrival, the usual endless paperwork, made more complicated by Fullmetal's reemergence. Meetings to be attended, reports of his own to write, and through it all thoughts of Edward distract him worse than if the young man were present.

_Perhaps I should call on him tonight_, he muses, as he shuffles through field reports, not a train schedule among them. But it would be a deceit to see him under the pretenses of duty, and the Colonel finds he has a strange reluctance to mingle their relationship with obligation. _I want to see him simply to see him,_ he resolves, _and if I cannot do that, then I shouldn't go at all._

Satisfied with this new resolution, the Colonel tries to concentrate on his work, but the niggling thoughts remain- promises to Alphonse, promises to himself; golden eyes like the sun. Finally he throws down his pen in aggravation, brushes his hands through his hair. _Yes. I'll go_.

But when the time comes to leave General Drayer catches him in the corridor, and there is no polite way to duck the conversation and escape to the dorms. Long-winded and intense, the elderly General latches onto the Colonel's forearm with a persistent grip, beaming up at the 'Hero of Ishval' while Mustang forces himself to smile. He soon finds himself at dinner with the man, discussing the recent upsets near Creta and a variety of technicalities of law, all of which he cares about not one whit. When he is finally able to make his excuses and flee Drayer's company, it's past ten, halfway across Central, and with bitter resignation he takes himself home.

* * *

The shrill peal of the telephone jolts him from sleep, and sends crackling alarm racing along every nerve. He's become too attuned to its call, anticipating bad news during those long weeks of Fullmetal's disappearance, and there is a moment of blind panic as every nerve screams Edward's name before he's able to coordinate enough to snatch the receiver from its cradle.

Flush with adrenaline, he gasps, "Mustang," and forces the fearful reaction down with stern reminders of reality.

Silence. Only silence or- no. Through the hum of the line he can hear breathing, faint, with the hissed edge of anxiety, and he's no sooner recognized it than the line goes dead. Left with the dial tone humming against his ear, he frowns, deliberates for a moment before rubbing his eyes tiredly and hanging up the phone.

Ten minutes later, just past three a.m., and he swings his car into the lot next to the officers' dorms, his gaze going unerringly to the second floor, northwest corner. A light glows in the window, confirming his suspicion, and he turns the car off. Still doubtful, but really, the choice was made when he pulled himself from his bed.

Even in civilian clothing, the guard recognizes him and salutes him past without the need to show his watch and moments later he's tapping on a door, light enough not to disturb those still at rest, but still loud to his ears. There's a long pause before the sound of uneven footsteps can be heard, and the door swings inward.

Clad in shorts and a thin shirt, hair hanging loose about his shoulders, Edward glares through a face that is a pale jumble of resentment, fear and guilt. "What the hell are you doing here?" he snaps, defensive, like a dog backed into a corner. One hand is trembling on the doorknob, a detail that Mustang sees, but pretends not to.

"I received a call," he says, and pink stains rise on the young man's cheeks. "Are you alright?"

The flush deepens, and Fullmetal bares his teeth. "I'm fine, dammit, I didn't fuckin' call you. Shit- get out of the hall!" He steps back, giving the Colonel room to enter before shutting the door with quiet emphasis and leaning back against it.

"I didn't call you," he repeats, crossing his arms across his chest and frowning. The Colonel merely lifts a dubious eyebrow, and he fidgets, cursing, finally spitting out, "Okay, fine, I called! But I wasn't awake, had just... I had a dream, and I wasn't awake. I never asked you to come."

"I know."

"Fuck, why did you come?" Fullmetal flaps his hands, the movements betraying distress and confusion, despite the irritation in his voice. Gold eyes trap Mustang's own, filled with all the secrets Edward still holds back. "You didn't have to come."

"I know," the Colonel says again. "I don't mind."

Fullmetal appears ready to burst into a rant, but he abruptly deflates, pushing off of the door and shouldering past the Colonel to hover at the edge of his bed. "It was just a dream," he growls, still on edge, still ready to bite. "I can handle it, it's no big deal."

Bruise-colored shadows around his eyes, and skin like parchment. Edward doesn't hide his wounds; he envelopes them, tries to pass them off as a part of himself, and the sight catches like a barb in Mustang's chest. _You don't have to take this on by yourself..._

"I understand about dreams," he replies, the words heavy with implication, and Fullmetal... stops. Overbright eyes search his face, looking for the lie, and open wide as they find no artifice there.

"You too," he breathes, and the Colonel looks away from the heavy scrutiny.

"Always."

This isn't something he had planned to tell Edward. Not now, not ever. Not even though Fullmetal already knows the depths of his sins on the frontlines of Ishval. It's his own private burden, one he'll not rest on other shoulders, but the truth leaps from his lips as though glad to be free and he cannot call it back. Can't even regret it, especially when some of the tension leaves Fullmetal's taut frame, when he lets down his guard just enough to suggest that perhaps he can trust Mustang with this one weakness.

The young man drops onto the edge of the bed, hard enough to make the mattress springs screech beneath him, hands running through the loose strands of gold framing his face. "I just want to sleep," he whispers. "I'm so fucking tired, and I just can't stop seeing..."

Mustang settles next to him on the bed, his arm brushing warm against Edward's shoulder. "That's why I came," he says.

Edward slants a look up at him, wary and yearning. "We can't do that here. The walls are like paper, and the bed squeals worse'n a fucking pig."

The corner of Mustang's lips turn up in the slightest of smiles. "We don't have to do _that_," he replies though, yes, he would, he wants to. Still sleepy-eyed and tired, he would gladly spend his last energies chasing Fullmetal's demons out. "Trust me, Edward."

Without waiting for a reply he lowers his head, ghosting his lips across Edward's forehead, over his eyelids until they flutter closed. The young man sucks in a breath, holds perfectly still as Mustang drifts lower, across broad cheekbones, down a clenched jawline, back to nibble at an earlobe. His mouth drops to the thin skin behind the ear; Edward _shivers_, and the involuntary response is enough to send heat rushing through Mustang's body.

Had he truly been afraid of _this_ once? The taste of Edward's skin, salt prickling his tongue as he traces the curve of his neck. The scent of his hair, as it slides past his nose, tickling, tantalizing. His teeth catch, mouth closing on the junction of neck and shoulder, sucking. One hand settles on the hard jut of hip, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles against the warm line of flesh exposed above the thin shorts; Edward stifles a moan, and Mustang is struck by the desire to kiss him, so strong that he shudders against his resolve to keep this something for Edward, not himself.

But he wants. Oh, how he wants...

Carefully, he urges Edward back with gentle pressure until the young man is reclining on the hard military bed, eyes shut and mouth open just slightly. Mustang moves over him, tongue dragging the length of his clavicle, lapping at the hollow of his throat. The hand at Edward's hip is moving in a wider arc now, barely brushing his groin, while the other tangles in the rich abundance of gold hair spilling across the sheets. An incoherent sound of protest burbles from Edward's lips as long fingers trace his erection through his shorts, but Mustang quiets him with gentle nips along his jaw and the young man groans and thrusts upwards, causing the bed to give a creaky whine.

"Shh," the Colonel soothes, pressing him down against the mattress. "Relax. Trust me."

It never fails to amaze Mustang each time Edward listens, lets his guard down. Allows him past the barriers to run his hands along the muscled flatness of his stomach, across the breadth of his chest. Lower, back to the hard length straining up against thin cotton, and the Colonel takes a moment to stroke from the moistening tip downward until his palm gently cups the younger man through the fabric. Gives the most careful of caresses, and feels pleasure fill him as helpless, needing noises rumble deep in Edward's throat.

His mouth moves again to Fullmetal's neck as he slips one hand beneath the waistband of the shorts, pressing the material down to free Edward's cock from its constraints. Mustang's lips play with growing hunger against smooth skin, as he teases with slow, firm strokes, sweet friction that draws gasps from Fullmetal despite his attempts at silence. Pliable and trusting beneath his caresses, and the unexpected warmth of Edward's hand on his waist sears Mustang like a brand, that simple touch so much more enticing for its reluctant desire than any wanton libertine.

And they're building, all the feelings Mustang has accepted, but not embraced, all the emotions he's not allowed to express. Coming to an intolerable head, raging beneath his skin like a fever that claws to be free. His teeth latch onto the crest of Edward's shoulder, hand desperately fisting hardened flesh, belatedly recalling the need for quiet as he brings the young man closer to the teetering brink of release.

The hand at his waist clasps tighter, strength barely held in check, and Mustang thrills at the painful grip. The heated length in his fist pulses, swells, Edward hisses in a frantic breath and Mustang seals his mouth over Edward's in a deep, rough kiss as his lover spills into his hand, swallowing his cries before they sound.

Warmth coats his hand, but it is nothing beside the sweet burn in his chest as Mustang finally lifts his head, gazing down at Edward's face. Tousle-haired, heavy-eyed, lips reddened and poised as though still in the act of kissing; the image hooks him behind his ribs, around his backbone, clear to the depths of his gut and through his very soul and Mustang is _glad_ of it. He is fiercely happy to be owned this way, but the nascent exuberance dies within him as sober realization steps forth.

This is what Edward warned him against. This feeling, this excitement, the very thing that Fullmetal doesn't want from him.

Fearful that some emotion has already slipped free and escaped into Edward's hands, Mustang turns away, schooling his face until he's able to meet the younger man's sharpening stare with his usual aloof smile. Excusing himself quietly to the bathroom, he flees with as much dignity as he can muster and lets the door click quietly closed behind him. Turns on the water in the sink and rinses his hands, trying to avoid his own gaze in the mirror.

Roy Mustang has never believed in assailing impossible goals. It's why he has accomplished so much, so quickly, this ability to choose his battles and seize what may be taken. There has never been any allowance within him for the unobtainable. Only what can be achieved is worth pursuing; the rest is a pointless expense of energy.

And yet here is a desire more fervent than any he's experienced since the rashness of youth left him, and it is the one thing denied him in no uncertain terms.

Edward is possessed of some feeling for him; he has no doubt of this. The young man has surrendered more than mere carnal liberties; his trust and pain and bleakest sins have been laid bare before him, more naked than unclothed skin. But Edward's heart is sacrosanct, untouchable, the one impossibility that tempts him beyond the realms of sensibility.

The water is still gurgling in the sink, and he shuts it off hastily, realizing he's let it run too long. Leaning back against the door, Mustang takes a deep breath and lets it go, shutting away his longing for what cannot be with ruthless strength. If the price of this relationship is to keep his newfound desire fettered and chained within his heart, out of sight and unspoken, then that is what he will do. Because an existence without Edward has become unimaginable, but he can survive one more secret.

Straightening his shoulders, he moves back out into the room, a dull ache blooming in his groin as he sees Edward curled on the bed, a tangle of gold and steel. Hearing the Colonel's approach he lifts his head, hair trailing across his shoulders, and asks, "You okay?" A small twist of his metal wrist sends a scattering of light across the ceiling. "D'you need me to...?"

"I'm fine," he replies quietly. "Do you feel better?"

A faint blush rises on Edward's cheeks, softer than the angry one from earlier. "Yeah. Thanks."

The Colonel nods. "I should probably go then."

He has only taken a few steps toward the door when Edward calls out, "Wait," an odd huskiness in his voice. Mustang turns, quelling the impulse to hurry back to the young man's side, and waits for Fullmetal to speak again.

"Do you think... you... I don't sleep well, alone." The elegant lines of Edward's face twist as reluctance battles with entreaty, confusion floating in the depths of his bright eyes. "You don't have to, but..."

"I'll stay until you fall asleep," Mustang replies to the unspoken question, and a flash of relief crosses Edward's face before it's hidden by gruff nonchalance.

"Thanks," he mutters again, embarrassed and content and trusting once more. His automail whines in accompaniment to the bedsprings as he shifts and turns to get comfortable, and Mustang reaches over to twitch the blankets up across the young man's shoulders. Fullmetal shoots a glare back at him, but it's muted, his eyes already going hazy as sleep draws him in.

"Don' have to do that," Edward mumbles, but he pulls the blanket tighter against him.

Mustang smiles, just slightly. "I know."

He draws up a chair beside the bed, sitting quietly as Edward's breathing slows, steadies. Once or twice gold eyes slit open, seeking out the Colonel as if to reassure himself that he's not alone, but before long Edward is deep in slumber. Mustang stays for some time after, guarding over his sleep until his own exhausted body begins clamoring for rest.

He leans over, breathing in the scent of Edward's hair for a moment before planting a tender kiss against his forehead and standing to go. At the doorway he pauses again, looking back at the sleeping figure with both satisfaction and regret.

"Goodnight Edward," he whispers, and slips out the door.


	13. Chapter 13

"Fucking awful."

Mustang has to agree. At his side, Fullmetal shuffles his feet, still glaring through the plate glass window at the bodies stretched on hospital beds. Silent and unmoving, staring with blank eyes up at the ceiling while men and women in lab coats scurry among them, examining, recording.

_Human chimeras_. The Colonel's stomach roils at the thought, though he forces himself to keep watching the examination going on in the lab. A doctor prods one of the chimeras with a small pin, evoking no response whatsoever, and jots a few notes onto the chart he carries; beside him, Edward looks away in disgust. The only reactions from the chimeras come from involuntary reflexes; a tap below the kneecap causes the leg to jump, pupils contract when a light is shined on them. Other than that, there is nothing.

The chimeras arrived with Havoc and Armstrong the previous Thursday afternoon, as well as a handful of former cultists who claimed to be kin. Mustang had met the Lieutenant at the station as he got off the train, watching along with him as nine chimeras were brought out, and one still form in a bag. Havoc had shrugged uncomfortably, chewing a much-abused cigarette. "Died on the way," he explained. "Nothing we could do about it, she just slipped away."

Mustang wonders if he is a bad person, to feel so grateful at the loss.

"What are they gonna do with them?"

He can see Edward from the corner of his eye, watching him with an intense gold stare. Mustang doesn't turn, but his mouth tightens. "Continue studying them," he replies. "What Cradshaw did was repulsive, but biological alchemy of this magnitude is rare. Despite it being morally abhorrent, they still want to know how it was done. The notes on the process were incomplete."

Edward snorts. "That's disgusting. I hope they don't ever figure out that fucker's array."

The Colonel glances down at him, quirking an eyebrow, and the young alchemist shrugs. "Yeah, I could tell 'em how he did it," he says, pitching his voice low. "But I'm not gonna. There are some things they don't need to know."

Shaking his head slightly, Mustang looks back into the lab. "I could order you to tell them," he comments, just as quietly. "It would make their job a lot easier."

He can feel Edward's scrutiny. "But you won't."

A thin smirk curls his lips, a self-mocking expression. "No," he agrees. "I won't. I don't think those things are going to last long, anyway."

Fullmetal makes a _hmm_ sound that could be agreement or a stifled argument. He turns back to the window, and Mustang tilts his head just enough to surreptitiously study the young man. He looks much stronger than he did the previous week, when he was newly returned from the mountain, color brightening his face, the limp vanished from his stride. His compact body exudes strength once again, and the new automail gleams without so much as a scratch marring its surface. As usual, Miss Rockbell had done a remarkable job in a short amount of time, and Mustang is quietly pleased at Edward's rapid recovery.

As if sensing the Colonel's eyes upon him, Fullmetal looks back up at him with that piercing stare. "I want to see Cradshaw's journal," he says, straightforward as ever.

The journal was something that Mustang had not anticipated seeing in Major Armstrong's hands when the big man joined the Colonel and Havoc on the platform. Just as he could have done without the human chimeras ever being brought into Central, he would much preferred that that ragged notebook had remained hidden forever in the caves. Although much of the writing was the expected ravings of a lunatic, a surprising amount of the commentary was fairly solid work, and likely of interest to the labs.

Mustang had spent several hours reading it, but biological alchemy was never one of his strengths. He dutifully passed the book along to the physicians and alchemists assigned to the chimeras, feeling somewhat tainted by the practices described within, and had been glad to be rid of it.

That Edward might want to see those notes had never occurred to him.

He sighs. "I can't do that."

"Why not?" Edward demands. "I handled that situation, not any of these idiots. They weren't the ones who nearly got killed finding out what he was doing. Why shouldn't I see his notes? Fuck, I'm twice the alchemist any of them are."

"It's not a question of your ability. I no longer have control over those documents. It's all in Research's hands now."

Fullmetal swears under his breath, frustration clouding his face, and the Colonel shifts to face him. "Why are you so interested in Cradshaw's notes? We both know you're not interested in making chimeras of any sort."

"He was manipulating _souls_," the young man states slowly, as though Mustang is being exceptionally dense. "You don't think that might be of some interest to me?"

The Colonel's eyes widen before he catches himself and schools his expression. "I suppose I can see how it would," he murmurs, turning back to the window. One of the chimeras has been propped upright, and several physicians gather round him as he is fed small bits of bread soaked in broth. The reanimate corpse swallows the morsels automatically, expressing no recognition of the meal, and Mustang's mouth twists bitterly. "With these results, it's easy to forget the theories behind them. In fact, I think I would prefer to." He moves to leave.

But Fullmetal stays at the window, watching the activity in the lab. "We don't get the option of forgetting," he replies, voice harsh.

The Colonel glances over his shoulder at the young alchemist, standing straight and still observing the chimeras. "Some things are better forgotten. Didn't you just say that yourself? This... you take too much upon yourself, Fullmetal."

"And you overlook too much." Edward finally turns around, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather pants, a belligerent tilt to his chin. "I want to see those notes."

He wants to argue- surely reading the notes of the man he'd killed will aggravate wounds that haven't yet closed- but his tongue won't say the words. His traitorous heart agrees, with its selfish need for Edward, and it has never been easy to tell the young man 'no' anyway.

"I'll see what I can do," Mustang tells him, and marches away before anything else can be said.

* * *

Edward comes to him again that night, and what was once occasional slowly begins to become routine.

The Colonel isn't sure if it's simply the presence of the chimeras nearby, or the fact that Edward goes nearly every day to observe them that drives the young man to his home so often. Alphonse's absence no doubt influences the frequency of the visits as well, creating a void where once a reassuring presence stood by to help his brother through his worries. With him gone, there is also no need for Edward to make excuses for slipping across town at odd hours. Mustang finds himself eagerly anticipating the knock at his door, and is crestfallen on the nights when it doesn't arrive.

* * *

"Don't think I'm one of your fucking women," Edward says to him, although the protest sounds more hollow and rote than it once did. "It's just sex."

"_Good_ sex, I hope," he purrs, lapping at the concavity of a hip.

The young man arches, making an appreciative sound in his throat. "Ain't complainin'," he replies in a husky voice.

* * *

He tries to tell himself that this is hardly what Alphonse intended when he asked him to watch over his brother; heated skin, hands desperate to push aside clothing. Sharp coupling in the hallway; slower, longer in his bed. Mornings where he wakes alone, others with his arms still full, and he hoards the memory of each of those instances greedily.

But things have changed, the Colonel thinks, some subtle shifting of the dynamic between them. Sometimes they sit in the den and talk; about simple matters like office gossip or local events, even alchemy once in a while. It's the kind of companionship- friendship- that Mustang has missed since Maes died, without ever realizing he had suffered from its lack.

* * *

Although he still spends most of his time at the library during his idle days in Central, Fullmetal still comes by the office regularly to berate the Colonel on his failure to produce Cradshaw's journal. He also chafes at the continued restriction, despite reassurances that his report is being reviewed. "These things take time," Mustang tells him. "Please try to be patient."

"I haven't _got_ time," Edward snaps, kicking his heels against the floor. "Al's been stuck like this for eight years already. Time's the one thing I _don't_ have! I need those notes!"

Mustang spreads his hands helplessly. "What do you expect me to do, Fullmetal? Steal them for you? I'm doing everything I possibly can right now, more than I should."

Edward rolls his eyes, frustrated. "I hate you," he growls. "I fucking hate you." A pause, then quieter. "I'm coming over at ten."

Mustang gives an almost imperceptible nod. "I'll wait for you."

* * *

Vibrant and alive in his arms. Passionate in his bed. And forever beyond his grasp, distant as the sun; he's already burnt himself reaching for this incandescent soul, but Mustang can't help himself anymore. He has found himself somehow within Edward's gravity, his life gradually orienting around his remote companion. Fullmetal has brought some intangible meaning to his existence- he's brought him to life, when Mustang hadn't even known he'd been dead.

But he can't likewise reach Edward.

_You do care_, he thinks to himself, watching Edward move beneath him, eyes closed, lips temptingly parted. _Why else do you come to me? Why me, Edward? Why me?_

He tells himself afterwards that it shouldn't matter. Edward comes to him, to him alone, and that should be enough. His own feelings aside, his golden-eyed lover's notwithstanding- Edward comes to him, and he should be grateful.

_Why is he going to you now?_

_Why...?_

It doesn't matter; it shouldn't matter. But it won't go away.

* * *

Reclining on his bed, he watches Edward divest himself of clothing, golden and silver and beautiful in the lamplight. The young man moves comfortably, easy with this empty simulacrum of a real relationship, and without any forethought the words spill out.

"Why me, Edward?"

The young man gives him a funny look. "It's a little late to ask that again, don't you think" he replies, tossing his shirt aside and attacking his belt. "You think the answer has changed?"

"That never occurred to me," the Colonel answers truthfully. "But I'm not certain I ever really understood it to begin with."

Fullmetal mutters something that sounds like "_fucking weird,"_ and shimmies his pants down his hips. "It's pretty simple, isn't it?" he grunts. "By the time I figured out why Hughes told me what he did, he was gone, and you were the only person I thought could understand."

It's not much of an answer. "Why would I be the only one though? Havoc and Breda were both in Ishval as well. Why not them?" he persists.

Fullmetal stops, scowling, fingers hooked over the top of his boxers. "What, are you getting tired of this?"

"Definitely not. I just wondered..."

He blows his bangs out in frustration, drops the last bit of clothing on the floor. "Fuck, you're weird, Mustang. Does it really matter why? We're here, we're doing this- wait, _are_ we doing this? 'Cause if you don't want to, just fucking say it already..."

The look on Edward's face is both stricken and defensive, and Mustang leans forward, reaching out to him. "I didn't say that," he hurries to assure him, coaxing the young man to the bed. "I most certainly did _not_ say that."

"Okay." The young man glares at him warily from beneath his hair, but crawls across the mattress, settling next to the Colonel. "And as for why, it was just something Hughes said about what the two of you went through out there."

Mustang goes still, long fingers catching the sheet in a tight grip. "So you chose me because of what Hughes and I did in Ishval."

"What-? What are you talking a-" Edward's mouth sags, and a dull reddish bloom spreads across his cheeks. "Oh. _Oh_." He swallows and looks away.

_Oh well done, Mustang. Very discreet._

Heat flares across Mustang's face as he realizes his error. Of all the stupid assumptions... What had occurred in Ishval had been a private matter, something that even he and Maes had never discussed, after. Things happened during a war that would never occur under normal circumstances, and while his friend had been many things, he had never been careless with secrets. For Mustang to make such a misjudgment of Maes, of all people, would be laughable in any other situation.

Maes had said nothing. And now Edward...

"I thought you knew."

"No," Edward says, very quietly. "I had no idea."

"When you talked me into this, you said that Hughes..."

Fullmetal shifts beside him. "I said that he told me about those three things. Other than that... he said that you'd been through a lot there, just like him. And that I could do a lot worse than going to you, if I ever needed anything." Edward turns, looks him in the eye. "He never said anything about the two of you."

There's a long pause before Mustang is able to mutter, "I... see."

"Hey, don't get freaked out." It's strange how Edward can sound both reassuring and annoyed all at once. "So you and Hughes did this, it's no big deal. It's not like I care. Not my business if you were fucking Hughes anyway."

"I didn't fuck Hughes, Edward."

Edward stares at him in silence, and Mustang can't explain the flash of irritation and shame that cuts through him. It's not as though Fullmetal hasn't done the same thing that he did, but the admission leaves him exposed and he braces for the young man's usual biting ridicule to scathe him. Uncomfortable, embarrassed; feeling weak, and hating that feeling.

But Edward only gives him a shrewd look, seeing, Mustang thinks, far too much. "Fuck, don't worry about it," he tells him, voice edged in exasperation. "You think I'm in any position to judge?" He leans over, planting a cold, metal hand against the Colonel's chest and pressing him back down onto the bed. Mustang tries to protest, to push him off, but the younger man simply swings a leg over his thighs and lets a little more of his weight rest on the hand planted above the Colonel's heart. "Just shut up, okay?"

Injured pride or not, his body is more than willing to submit to Edward's commands, and he closes his eyes as the other man leans over him to reach the nightstand. The quiet _snick_ of a cap; a cool, wet touch that makes him shiver. He stiffens within that careful grasp, hands clenching in the bedding as he tries not to arch into the body seated atop him. A soft _tsk; _a gruff voice gone surprisingly gentle_. _"Relax, Mustang. I mean it."

_Relax, Roy. You're okay, just relax..._

_Maes..._

As still and passive as he'd been in the desert; he gives himself over to Edward, gives back a little bit of the trust the young man has put in his own hands. Lets Fullmetal move over him, sink down onto him (pressure and straining and then _bliss_), mismatched legs still tight at his hips, warm and cold hands splayed flat on his chest. Hot, heavy weight resting on his stomach, and then Edward begins to move.

Relax...

Slow, careful. Edward has always liked sex rough and hard, but he rides the Colonel as if the man beneath him is something fragile. Hands that have always clutched and grasped with painful strength now stroke cautiously along his body; hesitant caresses that make him tremble. Cool metal fingers trace the thin path of black hair down his abdomen, almost to where they join, and he moans softly at their loss when they lift away.

Not since Ishval, since Maes, has he been able to allow someone else to take control like this. It had always felt like weakness, frightening, but with Edward... it's so easy. Almost natural, inviting more trust and promising no pain or judgment. Edward slides along him, pleasure so sharp he nearly cries out and his hands clasp at that firm, muscled waist, not for control, but simply needing more contact. Mustang feels the mattress dip slightly at his shoulders as Edward leans over him, and from behind his closed lids he imagines the heated gleam that will be in those gold eyes, the flush that will warm his bronzed skin...

The rough lap of a tongue across one nipple surprises him, and this time he cannot contain the sound that spills out into the quiet. Every nerve is aflame with sensation, a chorus of aching desire, and Edward has never touched him like this before. Gentle, tender; nearly affectionate, almost caring. That alone tilts him toward the edge, the ragged edges of his heart fluttering in the wake of emotions too great for his body to contain.

"Edward," he moans, eyes finally opening to take in the youth bent over him, encircling him. Bright eyes glance up, glazed with lust and something deeper- something both fierce and soft, quickly shuttered before he can identify it. A crooked grin bends itself across Edward's face and he rolls his hips over Mustang's lap, making the older man groan and thrust up, deeper, _more_.

"Like _that_, Mustang," he breathes, back arching, meeting every pump of the Colonel's hips. "Like _that_."

He's falling once again, everything dizzyingly out of control, but Edward's legs are locked at his waist, holding him solid and real and so alive. Skin on fire, heart ready to burst from the pounding force of each contraction, and Edward's name spills from his lips again, a plea or a prayer, as the shuddering tremors of his orgasm finally overtake him. Pulsing, shaking, his mind awash in hazy blankness; he's barely aware of Edward's own completion, gasped curses that flutter across his chest on heated breaths. Something skates the edge of his jaw, a butterfly caress, and then Edward flops bonelessly over him, panting from exertion.

Vision and sense return after a few minutes, and Mustang gradually becomes aware of Edward watching him, eyes winking cat-clever in the dimming light. "No more worrying," the young man states in a scratchy voice and slides off of him, pooling on the bed at his side. "You worry too damn much anyway."

Mustang catches him by the wrist before he can roll away. "No more," he agrees, tugging him back so that he can encircle that lithe body with his arms. "I won't."

Edward wriggles and complains like usual, but finally submits to the embrace, letting his legs twine with the Colonel's as he shifts to get comfortable. "You're a fucking idiot," he grumbles, and Mustang hums sleepily in response. "Just so you know," Edward adds, a hint of irritation in his words, but a cool steel arm winds around Mustang's waist anyway. Filled with lazy contentment, Mustang buries his face in sweet-smelling gold hair and simply breathes until sleep ensnares him.

* * *

The sharp crack of gunfire jolts him into motion, his body convulsing as the echo rings through his mind. Instinct screams of imminent danger, and Mustang reacts through the fog of sleep to dodge, rolling away from death bearing down on him, air gasping painfully from his lungs. _ His gloves- where are his gloves?_

A hand grasps his shoulders, and he draws his fist back in panic to swing, screaming as his attacker catches his bicep and forces him down, pinning him, his arm immobilized beneath their weight. Terrified, he struggles against the grip, fighting back with every ounce of strength he possesses, desperate...

"_Mustang_!"

His name cuts through him like a sword thrust, and Mustang goes rigid. Shadows slowly resolve before him; a ceiling, his bedroom. Edward crouched over him, wide open eyes filled with alarm. A flicker in the corner of his vision makes him glance around wildly, searching for the threat that had menaced him. "Where...?"

"Mustang," Fullmetal repeats, squeezing his arm. "Snap out of it!"

He's fully awake now, and understanding settles on him, heavy and cold. "I..." he begins, then closes his eyes tight. "Oh _fuck_..." Adrenaline is racing through him, making his stomach clench and bile rise up in his throat, and it takes great effort to master the urge to fight or flee. But the trembling is beyond his ability to control, his entire body shaking from the flood of fear.

It's been weeks since he's had a nightmare as intense as this. He had hoped that perhaps, they were finally leaving him.

Edward says nothing, but the grip on his arm loosens, becoming more companionable. Possibly it's meant to be comforting; it's an anchor to _here_, to _now_, a magnet pulling him from the desert and the screams that still threaten to overwhelm him, and the Colonel concentrates on that touch. Tells himself that he's safe, alive, that Ishval is over...

It doesn't work.

When he dares to look up Edward is watching him, eyes wise in his young face, but still innocent enough that it makes Mustang's stomach wrench with misery. _What am I doing_, he thinks, heart thudding against his ribs. _Is this what I have to offer?_ _ How can I claim to care if, in the end, this is what I give you?_

And the voices, the fire, the guns are still strong in his memory.

Pulling away from Edward's hand, the Colonel lurches from the bed, unsteady on his feet as he staggers for the door. "I'm sorry," he mutters, not turning to see the other man's face. "I could've hurt you, I'm sorry, I- that hasn't happened..." Unable to finish his thought, he flees the room, hurrying down the stairs and across the hall to the den.

It seems somewhat indecent to be wandering naked through even the privacy of his own home, but he doesn't care; the liquor cabinet is right there, and his shaking hands nearly fumble the brandy as he pulls the bottle out. He drinks it down; too quickly, but he doesn't want to appreciate it, only feel it burn away the edges of his dreams. The fire of the alcohol chases the memories down, but the drink doesn't erase the stink of battle, the taste of death in the air. Pouring another, he closes his eyes, bringing it to his lips and drinking only a little slower. By the time he fills his glass a third time the alcohol is beginning to take effect, the trembling in his limbs settling as tensed muscles relax.

"Does that really make it better?"

The brandy has slowed him sufficiently that, despite failing to hear Fullmetal's approach, Mustang doesn't startle. He weighs the question, swirling the amber liquid in the tumbler and watching it glint and slosh. "I don't know," he replies slowly, never taking his eyes off the drink. "I wonder."

Edward pads closer, his footsteps surprisingly soft. "I didn't know you... that yours were so bad."

Mustang can't quite manage the grim smile pulling at his lips. "How could you? I don't exactly broadcast the fact." He stops, setting the glass aside and rubbing his face with one hand. "I thought it was getting better."

He picks the tumbler up again, draining it, and leans back, toying with the bottle as he considers the merits of another. It will mean going in to the office still feeling the effects of the alcohol, but there's probably no avoiding that now anyway. With a sigh, he tips the bottle, filling the glass yet again.

A hand settles on his shoulder, cold and hard. "Don't," Edward tells him, the command quiet but strong. "If the others didn't fix it, one more isn't going to either."

Mustang quells the impulse to laugh bitterly, knowing it's the alcohol and not wanting to alienate the young man offering him support. "Maybe not," he concedes, taking a light sip all the same. "But it's not going to hurt."

He can feel the sharp look on Edward's face, burning into his neck. "You've always faced these things alone, haven't you?"

The observation is all too perceptive, but Fullmetal has always been a genius. Mustang is suddenly very aware of the hand on his shoulder, the presence at his back. Aching, longing pangs in his chest, an emptiness that's never been filled, and the Colonel sets the tumbler down hard enough that some of the brandy slops out onto the table. Staring into the glass, with barely any voice at all he answers, "This isn't something I share."

Fire and ashes, and death brought forth by his hand. How _could_ he share this with anyone? Who could he possibly hate enough to bring into his nightmares?

_You don't have to bear it alone, Roy. _ Maes frowns through cracked lenses, and Mustang shuts his eyes tight against the memory.

I do. I must.

Maes sighs, and Mustang realizes the sound is echoed behind him. The hand on his shoulder tightens.

"You should come back to bed," Edward tells him. "You're gonna feel like shit tomorrow as it is."

He opens his eyes, giving the tumbler another considering glance. "I won't sleep."

"Still better than sitting down here, getting drunk by yourself." The hand moves away, and Mustang would give almost anything at that moment to have it back again. "You don't have to talk about it, but you shouldn't be alone."

"Why are you doing this?" The question slips out before he thinks to censor it, whispered painfully. "Since when do you care what I do?"

There's a moment of deep, ringing silence, and he curses himself in the back of his mind for voicing the question; he doesn't _want_ to be left alone. But the thought of being given this compassion now, while he's weak, only to lose it again by morning is devastating.

"It's equivalent," Edward finally answers, the rough edge of anger scraping the words raw. "You've helped me when things were bad. And I told you before, you need this too. Think I never knew you had monsters in your head, just like mine? I _understand_, Mustang. Now come the fuck to bed."

The rush of alcohol in his veins is making him foolish. He wants to protest, demand impossible things; he wants to confess all his hidden feelings and lay them in his lover's lap. But turning, looking up into Fullmetal's fierce expression, is his undoing. Desire and love floods through his body, so strong that it _hurts_, as painful in its own way as the old wounds of war. He can't help but wonder if it is writ plainly across his face, the testament of every care that Edward has barred him from expressing.

The wrong words, and he risks losing even this inadequate offer.

His heart cries its pain, and Mustang bows his head before the sun-bright gaze. "Go ahead," he tells the young man quietly. "I'll be up in a minute."

Fullmetal levels a skeptical frown at him, and the Colonel gives back a glare of his own. "I just need a minute," he growls and somehow his anger is the right reply, for Edward nods and leaves him, and something akin to despair wells in him that his antagonism is preferable to his affection.

_You single me out, and you push me away. How the hell is that equivalent?_

There is no equivalence. There is only their exchange of lies, meaningless motions they go through to keep from seeing what's before them. The realization is bleak enough to make the Colonel yearn for the bottle again, but he promised... and even now, he can deny Edward nothing. He closes his eyes, nearly wishing for the familiar horror of his nightmares to overrun the burning loss that fills him.

_This isn't going to work._

But Edward is waiting upstairs, in his bed, and regardless of how doomed this arrangement may be in the long run, he is allowed reassurance , Mustang rises to join him, the floor cold beneath his unsteady feet. _I've broken my promises_, he thinks, maudlin, emotions stripped bare. _All for you, Edward, all for you- and you'll never forgive me for that._

_I just want you..._

* * *

Edward watches over him the rest of the night. Somehow, despite the nightmares, despite his own bitter disappointment, curled at his lover's side Mustang manages to find sleep again. When he wakes in the morning Fullmetal is gone, but a fresh mug of black coffee sits on the bedside table, steaming into the pale morning silence.

* * *

On the following day Alphonse arrives, with little more fanfare than a call from the dorms to let the Colonel know that Edward won't be in, as he is busy with the newly arrived books. Mustang can imagine Fullmetal quite clearly, so absorbed in his reading as to be completely aware of his surroundings, a thought that brings a twinge to his chest. Wishing them luck in their studies, the Colonel hangs up the phone and rubs his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to push down the nagging disappointment that hovers at the edge of his mind.

It's as though ever since he inadvertently opened himself to Edward, his world has slid just a few degrees out of kilter and Mustang cannot find his balance. Trying to immerse himself in his work only results in frustration, his thoughts straying wildly, and he finds himself wishing that Alphonse's absence had been prolonged.

But Edward needs his brother in ways that he's never needed the Colonel.

Irritated, he throws his pen down, leaving a dark blot of ink on the report he'd been trying to read. What is he thinking? Looking at Edward as though he were someone he could go to for companionship and affection. How perfectly ridiculous. For a moment the urge to leave work early stirs restlessly within him, but he dismisses it with a grimace. An early departure would only mean more hours to fill, empty hours, without Edward and when did he ever begin counting time by Fullmetal's presence?

_Stop it!_ he snarls at himself, furious and helpless all at once. _Stop looking for what's not there, what will never be there. You can't expect Edward to give any more than he already has._

But the desire doesn't yield.

Sharp, painful resentment fills him, and he glares down at the ruined report. Stupid- this is just stupid. Fullmetal has repeatedly made clear his disdain for anything more binding between them than their mutual release, but Central is full of people who would be more than willing to pass time in his company. An entire city of choices...

His mood already irreparably fouled, he's willing to risk Hawkeye's displeasure by snatching up his coat and storming from the office before an objection can be raised. Breda calls a question to his retreating back but he pretends not to hear, unwilling to conform to anyone else's expectations right now.

_I could call Roxanna_, he muses, savagely stalking through the corridors, junior officers darting from his path. _ She's always happy to see me. _ Roxanna, with her darkly exotic looks, or Sabine and her lascivious imagination, or Therese, always enthusiastic...

Even with such thoughts, at the junction of two halls his steps almost turn in the direction of the officers' dorms. But the Colonel stops himself short, fists clenching at his sides, and swings about to head toward the motor pool instead. Snags the first driver he sees, and fumes in the backseat as the car winds its way through Central's crowded streets until it drops him in front of his home.

Inside the house, he sinks into the chair at his desk, already rummaging through the drawer until he draws out the black address book, and he frowns at the light film of dust dimming its sleek cover. Has it really been so long since he used it?

Opening the book, he skims the list of names, recalling faces, bodies, as he reads. Memories of evenings on the town, nights spent in twisted, sweat-stained sheets. Hands and mouths sweeter than his most recent lover, full breasts, lush hips. Accommodating, unquestioning; an entire volume of beautiful, decadent women, enough to make Havoc cry with envy, and yet... he is near the end of the pages before he realizes that they hold no appeal to him now.

A frown tugs at his mouth, as he remembers invitations deferred, calls put off. First due to his preoccupation with Edward's disappearance, then because of the young man's presence. Any number of times when, in the past, he would have summoned one of that number but instead reached out to a man who'd as soon hit him as hold him.

Mustang stares blankly down at the telephone numbers, the names, the subtly coded notes in the margins. It's no good. It may never do him good again.

He lets the book drop to the desktop and rests his face in his hands. Falling so deeply for the one person who won't have him- it's such a joke. Nothing, no one else satisfies, and yet he's a fool if he thinks Edward would treat that need kindly. Oh, how Maes would laugh.

The thought rises in his mind, directed at his old friend; _I should blame you. Telling him those things, putting ideas in his head. Sending him to me- what did you expect to come of that? Why did you tell him about Ishval?_

He casts one last glance down at the book, and then tosses it back into the messy drawer, shoving it toward the back, but it binds against something further in. Frowning, Mustang pulls the book out and reaches back in with the intention of making space, but he stops when his fingers brush smooth wood and cool metal. Unease ripples through him, pushing away his thoughts of Edward, and Mustang cautiously wraps his hand around the object, withdrawing it from the drawer.

Gleaming dull blue, faint traces of oil pooling in the engraving of the Amestian seal, heavy in the palm of his hand. The Colonel stares down with his mouth curled in faint distaste at the service revolver, before his training makes him automatically check to ensure it is unloaded. He hasn't touched the weapon since Ishval. Revolvers were more reliable in the desert, their simpler mechanisms less likely to jam from the insidious sand than the semi-automatic pistol that he carries now. But in the desert he'd had his flames, and this gun had never seen use. Only the once...

He shoves the weapon back into the drawer, slamming it closed as though he could as easily shut the thoughts away. What could have happened, what this gun could have done, is something he hasn't allowed himself to remember since he first put it away upon his return. It is a reminder of a path he could have taken, one that so many other soldiers did- the coward's choice, the fourth way through the hell of war.

_At least you didn't tell him about that_, Mustang thinks bitterly, wishing for a drink to rinse the bad taste from his mouth. _You spared him that._

But mentioning such a thing would be wasted breath; while Alphonse lives, Edward will always persist. Fullmetal has never looked for such an easy way out, and neither his strength nor his pride would ever bend to such a desperate gesture.

He wishes he could say the same for himself.

Alcohol hardly seems amiss now, and Edward is not here this time to scold, nor to offer another way through. The brandy is finished off in short order and Mustang gazes mournfully at the empty bottle, still feeling hollow and brittle, and not nearly drunk enough. His sins crowd him, almost suffocating, and he lets his head fall back against the cushion, eyes closing beneath their weight.

_I should be grateful, Maes- you didn't tell him what I almost did._

* * *

A week since Alphonse returned, passing in solitude and by the end of it the dreams return as well- formless, the details unremembered; monsters moving beneath black water. They leave the Colonel worn and haggard upon waking, but he brushes them off without thought. There's too much to do to waste time worrying over dreams, and the violence of the nightmare he had when Edward last stayed with him has not resurfaced. He drinks cup after cup of coffee at the office, red-eyed, head aching, pressing on with his duties and refusing to examine the source of his weariness.

But when Major Armstrong arrives, bearing a well-stuffed, plain manila envelope, the Colonel cracks his first smile in days. He sends Fuery to the officers' dorms with a summons, and advises the young Sergeant not to let Fullmetal put him off. "It's in his interest to show up," he says, "and you can tell him that if he gives you any problems."

Still, it's a couple of hours before a familiar clanking in the hallways heralds the brothers' approach. The Colonel glances at the clock as he rises, moving to lounge in the doorway of his office to await their arrival. Eagerness has nothing to do with the calculated pose, but his insouciant mask wants to slip into a grin as Edward scowls his way through the door.

"Fuckin' bastard," Fullmetal grumbles. "We were working. What the hell do you want now?"

"The simple pleasure of your presence," Mustang replies, and this time the smile escapes as the young man's expression sours further. Havoc snickers from his desk, and Edward extends his glare in that direction for good measure. "But as it happens, there's work to be done even for those on restriction. Come with me."

The Colonel can hear Fullmetal cursing under his breath as he follows him into the office. Inside, the young alchemist doesn't bother with sitting, instead folding his arms across his chest, a portrait of inconvenienced annoyance. "What?" he spits again. "Is it really not enough to keep me tied down here, that you've got to pull me away from useful research to assign me busy work?"

"Idle hands, Fullmetal," Mustang replies loosely, unlocking a drawer on his desk and pulling out a heavy packet. "Wouldn't want you wandering off where you might get into trouble." He levels a knowing look at the other man- fishing, although he's had his suspicions- and has the satisfaction of watching Edward color beneath the scrutiny.

Oh, interesting. So it seems that Edward _has_ been considering how to break into the chimera labs.

"Asshole," the young man sighs, finally stepping over to the couch and flopping down. "So what waste of time do you have planned for me now?"

Mustang dangles the envelope from casual fingertips. "More research," he replies. "I don't think you'll find the work too onerous." With a flip of his wrist, he tosses the parcel to Fullmetal who snatches it neatly from the air.

"Oh, fucking great, like I don't have enough I'm trying to read now, gotta add to the damn pile..." Edward's complaints ramble on as he opens the flap and pulls a wad of papers out. But they trail off in a hiss, eyes widening as he takes in what he holds. The Colonel can see connections being made as Edward sifts through the words to the deeper meaning beneath. Lifting his head, a golden gaze pins Mustang where he sits. "Is this...?"

"The best I could do," Mustang answers, keeping his voice low. "Coded, out of necessity, but I assumed that you'd be able to see through that with ease."

Those bright eyes drop once again to the papers, where the Resurrectionist's research is disguised as architectural notes, before darting back up to meet the Colonel's. "Thank you," he says quietly, and something in Mustang's chest squeezes in joyful pain.

A dismissive flick of his hand. "I told you I'd see what I could do," he answers, letting his attention fall on the stack of paperwork he'd been working on before the Elrics' arrival. It wouldn't do to show too much to the perceptive mind behind those arresting eyes. "But make sure you remember to be suitably irritated at my excessive demands."

Edward snorts, and despite himself he glances up to see the young man favor him with a thin smile. "Like I'd forget," he said. "You're still a bastard, after all."

"Of course." He returns a dry smirk of his own, and Edward rolls his eyes. Standing, the young man stuffs the papers back into the envelope but pauses, eyes darkening thoughtfully.

"You gonna be around tonight?" he ventures.

His captive heart beats its wings against his chest, as the world seems to right itself. "I think I can manage to be," Mustang tells him, keeping his voice casual with some effort. Fullmetal nods and slouches out the door, his entire body expressing reluctance and bad temper. He considers calling after him, a demand for a report on his reading, just to hear the young man rant. But he lets it go, a small smile curling the edge of his mouth, as he bends to his work. There's much to be finished before this evening.

* * *

Although not as often as before, Edward continues to visit the Colonel at his home. Habit or the sham of a relationship, Mustang isn't sure, but he slowly becomes aware that, except for Alphonse, he is the only person with whom the young alchemist interacts. On his infrequent visits to the office, Fullmetal holds himself aloof from casual conversation, only extending the tersest of responses to direct questions and never offering anything more personal than basic courtesies. Alphonse seems to have picked up on it as well; more than once the Colonel overhears him trying to engage his brother in conversation with the rest of the office staff, only to be quietly rebuffed. That restraint bothers Mustang most of all; for Edward, always alive with energy, such reserve speaks of forethought and some deeper intention.

But the opportunities to speak to Edward about his reticence are few. The time he spends in the office is brief, and while the young man still comes to his door at least once a week, the Colonel is selfishly unwilling to trade the little time he has with Edward for questions that will likely go unanswered. But they worry him, all the same.

Two months after Fullmetal returned from the mission in the mountains, Mustang finally receives approval of the young Major's report, freeing Edward to travel again. Not half an hour later a mission briefing is delivered to his desk and Mustang is too pragmatic to see it as coincidental. And after reading the documents, he knows that there never was a choice in the matter, for anyone.

The order is sent out, and the Colonel waits for Fullmetal's arrival.

When the young man stomps into his office, the Colonel is standing before the window, staring out over the city. He doesn't turn as Fullmetal kicks the door shut, listening to the uneven shuffle of feet heading unerringly toward the sofa. "So what is it this time?" comes the raspy grumble, accompanied by the sound of a body hitting overstuffed cushions.

The Colonel waits another moment, watching a group of young soldiers jogging a circuit of the parade ground outside. His mouth tenses, and he turns to face the alchemist sprawled across his furniture. Eyeing the elegant line of exposed neck, Edward's chin tilted back as he examines the ceiling tiles with a bored expression on his face, he feels his throat tighten momentarily, emotion overtaking him before he clears it with a cough.

"I received your report back today," he says, seating himself behind the polished desk and folding his hands.

Edward rolls his head to stare at him. "Yeah?" he grunts, eyes brightening with interest. "What's the verdict?"

Nausea sweeps through the Colonel, but his face remains blank. "The generals passed it, and you are once again free from restriction."

"That's great!" He's standing in one sinuous motion, muscles rippling beneath his tight shirt as he swings his arms wide. "Now me an' Al can finally-"

"Sit, Fullmetal. We're not done yet."

Edward snarls at him, pointedly remaining on his feet although he ceases moving toward the door. "I'm not your fuckin' _dog_, Colonel Bastard. What the hell else is there?"

The Colonel's mouth twitches; he can't control the frown that plucks at his lips. "I have a mission for you."

Gold eyes widen. "_Already_? Fuck, not wasting any time, are you?"

He meets the disdainful stare, his own gaze filled with ice. "Believe me, Fullmetal, I wish it wasn't my duty to send you into this."

That sobers the young man; his defensive stance doesn't relax, but his voice softens just a bit. "What is it?"

The folder was already prepared before Mustang summoned the young alchemist, and without a word the Colonel pushes it across the desk. "There have been some disturbances along our southern border with Aerugo," he says tonelessly. "Murders, disappearances. It had been left for local authorities to deal with until now, when word came that the town of Fareth has been obliterated. Completely wiped out. Not a single soul is left alive there."

Edward frowns. "Sounds more like a job for regular military," he comments, leaning a hip against the desk and taking up the folder.

"Soldiers couldn't handle this," he answers, and Fullmetal glances up in surprise at his dark tone, brows drawing together. At the questioning look, the Colonel sighs and nods at the folder.

"There's only one person responsible for these acts," he explains, trying to ignore the way his stomach leaps and shivers. "An alchemist, and an Aerugan, by all appearances. He seems to be slipping back and forth across the border while committing his crimes. We're still awaiting word through diplomatic channels to find out if he's attacking in Aerugo as well, but we can't wait any longer to send aid to our citizens. He has to be stopped."

Trepidation fills him, fears that he cannot voice as either commander or lover. Of all times for such a thing to happen, why now? Why, after Edward was so recently returned to him, still healing from the mental wounds of his last mission? The words of the briefing had been sparse, but the few facts that it told were more than enough to chill Mustang to his core. Sending Fullmetal to the cult in the mountains had been bad, not having any idea what he was sending the rash young alchemist into. This time he _knows_, and it takes every shred of training and control to keep the emotion from his voice, and his eyes steady on Edward's.

The young man lounges with easy nonchalance against the desk, still frowning, but unperturbed. "So, another crazy alchemist?" he says, cocking his head, golden bangs covering half his face. "Doesn't sound all that bad."

Mustang draws a deep breath, hands clasped tight once again on the desktop. "Bad doesn't begin to encompass this. Fullmetal... he doesn't use an array."

The young man stiffens, his eyes going dark and distant as he stares into a past that the Colonel cannot see, but can imagine all too clearly. A darkened room, a twisted, dying form, blood everywhere...

It's a little too close to his own nightmares.

But Edward- always strong, always the brave one- shakes himself just a little, straightening from his slouch with a hard expression. "So he's seen it too..." he murmurs, then shrugs. "Whatever. Guess I'll grab Al and go get our shit together. I'm sure you'll want us on the first train available, so we'd better get moving..."

Tucking the folder beneath his arm, he turns away, but not before the Colonel catches a glimpse of the haunted distance that has opened in his bright eyes. It sears his heart and not for the first time, the Colonel hates the military and his duty that demands he once again throw Fullmetal headlong into horrors that would make any other man incapable with fear.

That there is no one else who can take this on only makes it worse.

And Edward doesn't shrink from this burden although the Colonel knows how very aware he is of his mortality; Al needs him, his goals pull at him, and yet he will not yield, never stops. Straight-backed and jaw set, Fullmetal will stare down hell and all its demons without flinching, and he is about to walk out of Mustang's office and into whatever awaits him at the border...

Last chance. Without thinking, Mustang calls after him. "Edward... " Voice barely a whisper, thready in the quiet of the room. "I'm sorry."

The alchemist hesitates, looking back over his shoulder, and for a moment the chill in his eyes recedes.

"Don't worry about it," he replies, quiet but serious. "We've all got a job to do, right? It's okay."

Mustang holds his gaze, desperate to impart things he cannot say, not here, not to Edward. "Be careful."

Fullmetal snorts, but a crooked smile cracks through his irritation. "Fuck, I told you before, stop worrying." And then he's gone, out the door and out of reach once more, leaving Mustang with an echoing pain he'd hoped never to feel again. Gold and black; Edward's image burns on his retinas, and the Colonel mouths the words he can never utter to his lover's face to the shadow in his mind.

He could swear he feels the moment that Edward's train steams away from the station.


	14. Chapter 14

_I am not in the habit of leaving author's notes scattered throughout my chapters; however in this case, I feel as though you are owed some explanation for the long lapse between the last chapter and this update. My original draft was seriously flawed, and I am truly and humbly grateful for the fact that I have a beta (evil_whimsey, a far better writer than I) who was wise enough and honest enough to point that fact out to me. As well as the major issues, I was burnt out on this story (which is _hard_ to write), and this is clearly evidenced by the horrible prose of that first draft._

_Thanks to her intervention and the time I spent away from this story, this new draft of the chapter reads far better, functions within the framework of the story far better, and is something I will not have reason to look back on with shame. My only regret is that it took so long to produce, when I had so many readers invested in its outcome._

_I have left a note on my profile page regarding this story, but it's unlikely that many people have read it, so it bears restating: **no matter how long it takes, I will complete this story.** It will never be abandoned, and I will do everything I can to bring it to its conclusion within a realistic time frame. Just please understand that I do not have the time I once did to devote to this story, and I will never compromise on the quality of the writing in order to simply push it out faster. You all deserve better._

_So in short, if you have read this story since the beginning, thank you for persevering through this long hiatus. If you are new to this tale, welcome. And thank you all, so very much, for reading._

* * *

Wind and heat, and there is blood; blood everywhere, baked black into the stones and the gritty dirt, and the silence is worse than the screaming because he is left alone with the blood and the sand and the guilt that is slowly crushing him...

Mustang awakens with a cry, body jackknifing beneath tangled sheets that burn against his skin. For several minutes his breaths come in rasping gulps as he attempts to calm his racing pulse and drag his mind from the clutches of the dream. When he is finally able, he pushes himself up to sit against the headboard, casting an exhausted glance at his clock. It is just past four in the morning.

Rubbing his aching eyes, Mustang lets a sigh shudder out before rising and turning on a light. There's a half-empty bottle of scotch on the dresser- his second bottle in as many weeks- and he pours a couple fingers into the tumbler waiting beside it, knowing that there will be no more sleep for him tonight.

It has been this way since Edward left.

* * *

The days crawl past, prickling impatiently under his skin as he awaits any word of Edward or the mission. It gives Mustang time to think of every choice he could have made differently, every way in which this could go wrong. Fullmetal's ability to transmute without an array has always been the edge that provided him split-second adaptability in a fight; a tactical advantage over anyone he faced, but the Colonel has serious doubts whether Edward has ever fought an opponent possessing the same freedom.

When he thinks on it too long, his stomach tightens and heaves in painful fear that strains even his ability to hide. He clings to his equilibrium, holding onto it by the rationale that if Edward has never encountered such a challenge, it is highly unlikely that the Aerugan suspect has faced such a thing either. In that case there is little doubt that Fullmetal has far more experience in combative alchemy, though given what the Colonel knows about the power of array-less alchemy that's not entirely convincing. But if that alone isn't enough to tip the balance in Fullmetal's favor there is also Alphonse to be considered, and in no way would he be fool enough to underestimate the younger Elric.

But it remains difficult to keep his thoughts from turning dark. A thwarted or vindictive alchemist; a fall down a flight of stairs. A chimera; drinking from a tainted well. Edward is as mortal as anyone, and the young man knows it; hasn't Fullmetal tried to tell him this before? The risk is always there, inevitable when he's sent out like a trained dog to run on the military's orders; one critical misstep, and that furious, blazing life will disappear. And Edward would never know...

He tries the thought out, as if to see how it fits; Edward, dying, without ever knowing the emotions Mustang holds for him, and is unsurprised at the stab of pain that accompanies it. The idea of Fullmetal going to his grave, after everything he has endured already, believing that he is nothing more than a tool to the Colonel is simply intolerable. Mustang clenches his fists, knowing that if such a thing came to pass it would leave him a hollow man the rest of his days.

It had seemed so simple, to keep this unwanted secret from Edward. A safe compromise, giving him his indulgence and Edward his distance. But he remembers a dim room, a box filled with more than he could face. The smell of a body he knows so well, stale, in red fabric. Knowing how easy it would be to face that once again, Mustang realizes with grim acceptance that some secrets he dare not hold close.

Things have to change. Somehow he must change them, if he is to live with himself.

* * *

He dreams again that night. Ishval, always the desert; he no longer dreams of anything else. This time it is not the people he burned who haunt him, but the men he knew, the ones he couldn't save, killed or maimed in the sands. Faces he knows, names he can almost remember, hundreds of comrades lost in battle; they stare at him as they march past, beyond his ability to protect, and he awakens to the hot sting of tears on his cheeks.

* * *

Another week passes. Then two. Edward has been gone for over a month now, and it is eating him alive.

His stomach aches with waiting, clenching whenever the phone rings, or the post arrives. Waiting for news- any news- wears him down, threatening to expose how deeply his self-control has been shaken. He cannot afford to slip and allow his lack of objectivity to show, and he girds himself in the masquerade of indifference he's worked to attain. But it's hard to hold, when every phone call, every briefing from the south, has him biting his lip, waiting for one name, even a hint, a rumor...

But there is nothing.

He goes so far as to place a few calls, reaching out among his scattered network of contacts in the region for any kind of clue. Just a whisper of gold hair, an armored companion, and the garrote of fear might loosen enough for Mustang to be able to breathe again. But the borderlands are rural; miles of forest and pasture stretching between villages and townships and ample room for a killer to hide, or two young men to lose themselves- and there is simply no information to be had.

And the days continue passing without information, just the empty sameness of paperwork and decisions. Neither sightings of the brothers, nor word of any new destruction. The attacks have ceased, and while the Colonel is grateful for their cessation, it does not reassure. He does his work with as much attention as he can give it, tries to focus on conversations, but all the while his mind is elsewhere. Helpless to do anything but await communication from Fullmetal, he works with as much attention as he can manage, tries to focus on conversations, but his mind wanders far from the office.

By the ninth week of Edward's absence with still no word, Mustang is balanced on a knife-edge of panic and frustration. Iron control is all that keeps him from spilling his anxiety in the office, where speculation and occasional murmurings of Fullmetal's name gnaw daily at his composure. But he feels the corrosion at the heart of himself, and knows that if this goes on much longer, his mask will fail. It's too personal now; he tried to stay aloof, to treat Edward no differently, but he can't, he _can't_. No other loss in his command could even come close to destroying him the way Edward's would, and the admission shames him.

The Colonel stares out across his office, his eyes aching with lack of sleep, and watches his men work, intent, efficient even as they talk and joke amongst themselves. They deserve better than this from him; he runs a trembling hand across his face, wondering how the hell he can pull himself together for their sake, if not his own.

* * *

It's nearing the end of the eleventh week. A bad week, but then all of them have been bad since Fullmetal left. There had been a rumor... but it had amounted to nothing, just like all the rest. And Mustang is exhausted with helplessness; he knows _nothing_, and it is worse than when Ed was lost up that mountain, for at least there he'd had Breda to be his eyes. The waiting and lack of knowledge has treated him as unkindly this time as before, and the Colonel feels sapped and empty, dispirited. It is remarkable how dimmed his world seems, when Edward is not in it.

Returning home from the office, he stumbles over his mail in the foyer, scowling at the pile as he toes off his boots before scooping it up and tossing it on the kitchen table. Starts water for tea, and groans at the empty state of both icebox and pantry. He forgot to shop, again. Though it hardly matters; his appetite scarcely exists of late.

Sinking into a chair, he reaches for the stack of mail, flipping through it with dull disinterest. Nothing he cares about, each forgotten before he's moved on to the next- until his eye catches on one envelope, plain and unassuming, amidst the rest. Simple, forgettable, with no return address, only his surname and the destination printed in plain block letters. Curiosity awakened, he rises, carrying the envelope to his desk where he slits it open.

But there is nothing inside.

Or, almost nothing. A closer inspection reveals a sprinkling of fine white sand collected in the bottom crease, nearly invisible against the paper, and Mustang rubs the grains between his fingers, perplexed. What deliberate nonsense is this? But all at once, suffocating, desperate hope rises up like an epiphany and he gasps aloud, straightening in his seat. For who else but Fullmetal would send him such a cryptic message?

He pours the sand onto a saucer, and examines the envelope with painstaking thoroughness. The handwriting of his address is a study in generic style, and nothing he could claim to identify. The only other thing on the envelope's face is the stamp, and Mustang can't quite restrain the triumphant smirk when he brushes his fingertips over the tiny image of a train, frozen in mid-steam upon the postage. Such an easily overlooked detail, and yet it makes him all the more certain.

Turning it over, he reaches out for his letter opener once more and begins carefully splitting the envelope down its seams until he's able to unfold and examine it flat. Empty, unadorned, and the smile fades away as uncertainty twists like a worm in his gut. He'd expected some clue, some hint that he can work with, not a dusty envelope and a handful of sand. Somewhere, not too far from here, Edward is waiting for him, _must_ be, and the urge to _go, now!_, is almost enough to make his legs buckle. He snatches the envelope up again, studying it from all angles, almost frantic to find his answer.

It's as much desperation as intuition that makes him snap his fingers behind the envelope, and the brief flash of _something_ underneath the stamp draws an unconscious sound of relief from his throat. He scrambles for his desklamp; a blurred moment of adjusting both shade and paper, and there is the number 620, in stark silhouette and written in a familiar hand.

Trains. _Edward_.

A brief call to headquarters to arrange for his absence tomorrow, and he is throwing together a bag, rushing out the door. The train station isn't far, and yet it feels like years before he arrives, snatching a schedule from an attendant and poring over it with anxious eyes. There has to be something, there can't _not_ be, not when Edward is reaching out to him, needing him...

To his surprise, he cannot find a train with that number. He takes the question to the stationmaster, who gives him a curious look, but answers that the line with that number is a cargo freight train carrying ore from Youswell, and scheduled to pass through the station in the dead hours of Sunday morning. Eyeing the Colonel's uniform and insignia with concern, the man inquires if there is any problem he ought to be aware of, and Mustang distractedly reassures him, mind racing. There has to be something he's missing.

He glances back down at the schedule, this time scanning departure times, and there it is. At twenty past six, a daily commuter train that travels to the town of Pane, some two hours to the west of Central. A small town, the right distance- he has never been so sure of a thing. Securing a ticket, he settles on a bench to wait, his heart repeating Edward's name like a prayer.

* * *

The sky is darkening as the train grinds to a halt at the Pane station, and a weight seems to lift from Mustang's chest as he steps out onto the platform. Only a few people disembark with him, and a glance around reveals even fewer waiting to board. The single bench by the stationmaster's office is empty, and it seems to the Colonel that the station is likely used more for freight than human cargo. A glance at his fellow passengers bolsters his theory; they have the look of laborers rather than merchants, curious of him because of his attire and bearing, but ultimately uninterested.

He keeps his eyes open for a familiar splash of red or gold, but sees nothing as he follows the meager crowd out of the station. No one to guide him, however there is only one place Edward would be and a few inquiries inform him of the location of the town's single inn; typical for an industrial town. Walking through the narrow streets, it quickly becomes apparent to Mustang that the local trade is in glassmaking, and the final shadow of doubt lifts from his heart. The sand- he'd missed the most obvious clue.

Soon enough he arrives at the inn, and is greeted by a bored-looking gentleman at its desk. He barely has time to begin his inquiry before the man's uninterested expression shifts to something akin to recognition.

"Would you be looking for a Mr. Elric, sir?" he asks before Mustang can continue, and the Colonel blinks at him in mild surprise.

"As a matter of fact, I am," he answers slowly. "How did you know that?"

The clerk doesn't seem to notice his hesitance, prattling on as he hunts through a ring of keys. "He said someone might be coming after him, and asked that we hold a key for you. It's not often we get visitors here. Most of the time, people just pass right on through to Central. Ah, here we go!" He passes a room key over to the Colonel, who accepts it with murmured thanks. "End of the hallway, on the right."

It's hardly circumspect, but then again, it's unlikely that anyone around here cares. And there is no question of backing away now, not even if he were able. Not with only a hallway between him and the man he's worried and ached for all this time. Key heavy in his hand, Mustang can scarcely refrain from racing down the short distance that remains between himself and Edward, and it is only when he is faced with the door that his nervousness returns. Swallowing it down, he unlocks the door, and steps inside.

The room is dark, curtains drawn against even the sinking sun's light. A battered valise lies a few feet into the room, as though dropped there without a thought, and the bed is still made. And there by the headboard, sitting between the pillows, is Edward; a knot of tension, knees drawn up to his chest and bare arms encircling them. He tilts his head as the door opens, eyes luminous in the dim room and blinks slowly into the light behind the Colonel before focusing on him in confusion.

Mustang's heart clenches at the sight, but even as it does it's singing _alive, alive, alive_. Edward is back, and safe, and he can't even bring himself to care at this moment how this is so, simply overcome with thankfulness for his return. Pale beneath his tan, bruised, scratched and scraped all over, but miraculously intact all the same.

Only his eyes... Gold and flat and utterly lifeless, as dead as he'd seen that first time, in Bisman; as dead as he's seen in the mirror more times than he can count.

He sets his bag down, never shifting his gaze from Edward. The young man's eyes follow his every move, bleak and resigned, as though he had watched all his hopes die and a cold foreboding slithers down the Colonel's back. He wants to cup that impassive face in his hands, kiss the fire back into it, but settles instead for sitting on the edge of the bed, close to Fullmetal's feet.

"I'm glad you're back," he says gravely, knitting hands that want to reach out for Edward into a tight ball in his lap. "Was it very bad?"

The alchemist shrugs, his eyes dropping for the first time since Mustang entered the room. "Dunno," he replies, voice dull and tarnished with exhaustion. "Not bad, I guess."

The lie is too obvious to bother pointing out. Mustang shifts a little closer, trying to catch that golden gaze once more. "You wanted me here...?" He leaves the sentence hanging, suddenly unsure of what this strange reticence in Edward means. It is almost like the moments when Fullmetal pulls back in the office, a strange, premeditated withdrawal, totally at odds with the young man's usual behavior.

A sharp nod, and nothing more.

There's a long silence. Edward stares down at the bed, fingers clenching and unclenching in the covers, his face empty of himself. The silence is oppressive, the unspoken recent past lurking behind it, and guilt tightens its coils upon the Colonel. Remembering the broken young alchemist in his house, the dry, heaving sobs, Mustang hesitantly asks, "The other alchemist. Did you...?"

Golden bangs fly as Edward shakes his head violently. "I'm not even here, officially," he snarls, flaring to belligerent life from his stupor. "Don't try and turn this into some fucking debriefing."

There is pain in those aggressive eyes, hidden behind the defensive snarl and snap, and Mustang waits only a moment before leaning forward to brush a finger along the stubborn line of Edward's jaw, touching him as tenderly as he dares. "I'm not asking as your commanding officer," he offers.

Bright eyes snap up to meet his, and it takes several seconds before the reflex to flinch back from the caress catches up. Lip curling faintly, Edward snaps, "I don't-"

The fire dies, as quickly as it flared. "I don't want to think about it," the young man states, letting his eyes fall once more. "I don't want to think about anything."

Silence rests between them, heavy and still, while Fullmetal stares vacantly at the coverlet and the Colonel's thoughts vacillate from relief to concern to an overwhelming need to touch the young man. This newly returned Edward is dimmed, the vital spark of his spirit guttering fitfully in whatever darkness he has seen this time, and despite returning relatively unharmed from the mission, Mustang can't help but think how easily he could have been lost. Compassion stirs within him, as well as his newfound resolution, and he wishes he knew the words to express his affections and wipe the emptiness from Edward's eyes.

Fullmetal's head slumps forward further until his forehead almost touches his knees, folding like a dying flower while Mustang watches him, waiting for a sign of what the younger man wants. Eventually Edward's shoulders shudder with a sigh; still hiding his face, he whispers in a voice that is far too old, "My head... it feels so heavy."

The quiet dread imbuing the statement is not half so frightening as the utter acceptance in it as well. Unable to contain himself any longer, Mustang rests a hand upon Edward's knee, and this time the young man doesn't pull back. "What do you mean?" he asks gently, fingers moving in soothing caresses.

That lean body, huddling in on itself, trembles. "There's too much in it." He raises a miserable expression to meet Mustang's eyes and there is no force in the world that could keep his hands from lifting then to cup that ravaged face. "All the shit I know, things I _shouldn't_ know, that _it_ put in there... It's too much, it's not natural, and I want to forget it but I _can't_." A sharp intake of breath, painfully harsh. "I... I just want to get away from it. To not be _me_, to not carry that weight _every goddamn day_..."

"Edward," he breathes, not understanding, but the young man seems not to hear him. He clutches his head, flesh and metal tangling in long hair, and makes a sound that's close to a sob.

"It's just too heavy, too much! I want it gone, want to be like everyone else again, ignorant... I don't want to know these things anymore!"

Bright strands tangle and catch in the joints of the automail, though Edward doesn't seem notice. They tear free as he moves, jerky and aimless, and he still doesn't react, but Mustang does. He catches the wayward hand in his, pulling it to his heart, and for a moment he thinks the old spark has been ignited. Fullmetal's head jerks up, eyes blazing, teeth bared...

But nothing follows. Staring at the Colonel with furious intensity, the young man breathes heavily, a melange of anger, despair and something else, something unknown, flickering across his face. Mustang watches the rapid play of emotions with concern until Edward finally sags, dropping his head, hiding amidst the thick fall of hair, and the gesture makes his chest ache with hopeless longing.

"Edward..." What can he say to that, what can he give, to relieve stress he can't even imagine? He would give it in a heartbeat, anything within his power, to ease this man's suffering. "What can I do?"

A cold hand twines with his own. "Drive it out of me. Drive me out of myself, make me forget, don't let me think. Make it so I _can't_ think, drive it out..." The grip tightens almost painfully, and it's a plea he cannot resist.

He tugs Ed's hand closer, lifts it to his lips, kisses the metal fingertips. Edward watches him, looking desperately lost, and Mustang wants so badly to confess the love that has been growing without consent. But he dares not burden the young man further; love is a weighty knowledge, and Fullmetal is already straining under whatever terrible things he knows. And Mustang will not ask; today he will do what is requested, do what he can to remove the load instead of adding to it.

But soon, he promises himself, gently pressing the other man down against the rough blankets. Kisses the offered throat, parts willing legs with one knee. Edward moans, _moves_ beneath him, and there is no way he can keep this burgeoning emotion to himself much longer. He must tell him soon.

* * *

Much later, lying tangled together on rumpled sheets, Mustang lifts his head with a sudden, frightening realization. "Where is your brother?"

Beside him, Edward stirs, his voice raspy and tired. "I sent him ahead, to the archive. There were things we learned... we needed more information." He shifts again, before adding guiltily, "He didn't want to go. Not alone, not... not now. But I needed..."

He burrows back against the Colonel's body, not protesting the arm that draws around him. And Mustang thinks then that the young man must indeed have come back sorely wounded, only on the inside, where he can keep the injuries hidden. Edward isn't the broken, heartsick man who appeared in his house months ago, but this new sorrow clearly pains him no less, and Mustang thinks again, helpless, _what can I do?_

"It wasn't me," Edward whispers, face pressed to Mustang's neck and sounding as though it is there is little comfort to be found in that truth. "The alchemist. I didn't kill him. It was a rebound." Lifting his eyes, he looks up at Mustang with an expression of dread. "I couldn't stop him."

"It's not your fault," Mustang's voice is low, on the edge of breaking, and how he wishes he could stop Fullmetal from taking everything on himself. His palm cups the young man's cheek, heart afire as he stares into the strained, handsome face. Bleak golden eyes flutter, falling closed as if only now is he able to relax and Mustang wants to believe that _he_ made the difference, but that way lies madness. Better to kiss velveted eyelids, stroke him hard again, and give the only solace he allowed to offer; the only respite Edward will accept.

Something burns at the edge of his soul as he swallows the words he longs to profess; instead Mustang presses deep once more, scatters kisses across bruised and burnished skin, and lets his body sing the love he cannot speak.

* * *

It takes Edward another week to return to Central, and buffered by the knowledge that the other man is safe and alive, the Colonel is easily able to withstand the wait. Hawkeye watches his renewed vigor with a question in her eyes that remains unspoken, but his other officers simply seem to be grateful that their superior has returned to his usual self again. The dark dreams that haunted him while the young alchemist was on the mission have receded, and rest has restored what the sight of Edward alone did not.

When Fullmetal finally does appear at Central Command, he arrives like some harbinger of ill tidings, ominously silent, his face stormy. Alphonse trails at his heels, armor rattling, but otherwise as soundless as his brother. The usual enthusiastic reunion that typically follows their return is dampened by the cloud that seems to seep in after them, and the younger Elric immediately stations himself near the file cabinets, the place where he always goes when he's trying to disappear. But before Mustang can inquire as to the mood of the two, Edward stomps back to his desk and flings his report at it, a mulish set to his features.

"There," he grunts, arms clasping across his chest. "That's it."

The young man is twitching and on edge, and a mere glance tells the Colonel that whatever is written there is surely incomplete. With a sigh, he indicates the sofa. "Sit down, Fullmetal," he says, picking up the scant two pages that constitute the report and surreptitiously watching as Edward drops down before starting to read.

As expected, only the barest of facts are mentioned; subject located, subsequently neutralized. No collateral damage. Region secured. No details as to precisely what happened, or why. In the room beyond, metal rings softly as Alphonse shifts on his feet, and the Colonel puts the report down to study Fullmetal over folded hands. "What happened there?" he asks quietly.

"It's in the report," Edward snarls back, not looking at him.

"No, actually, it isn't. There's very little in here except your assertion that this man is no longer a threat."

An angry scowl lifts to meet his gaze. "What, you don't believe me?"

Mustang pinches the bridge of his nose, resigning himself to what is sure to be a long and touchy session. "I didn't say that."

It takes most of the afternoon to extract anything from Edward, although by the end of it the Colonel better understands Fullmetal's reluctance. Too many details closely resemble the young man's own past; human transmutation and the material of the Philosopher's Stone. But most of them would make little sense to anyone other than an alchemist, and he has to admit that some of Edward's cryptic statements baffle even him. Equivalent exchange he is familiar with, but the passage fees (which the other alchemist grudgingly mentions, then refuses to explain) are unknown in his experience. Nor does he understand the references to greater knowledge and the Truth- he can hear the capital letter on the word- and Fullmetal's seeming abhorrence of their pursuit. It seems counter to the young man's quest for information, and he says so.

"You don't understand," Edward growls, kicking the base of the couch sullenly. "The cost is always too high. And it never plays fair."

Which, he gathers, was the cause of the suspect's demise. All Edward will say on the subject is that the man reached too far, tried to take what he couldn't possibly hold. "I tried to tell him it was impossible," he says, looking both angry and sickened. "You can't pay for that sort of thing. But he wouldn't listen."

The Colonel takes down a few notes to expand upon the bare details Fullmetal has provided- the better to inform the generals without placing dangerous knowledge at their disposal- and finally dismisses Edward when the young man clamps down, refusing to elaborate any further. He has enough to satisfy his superiors, although it is plain that there is still more to the situation than Fullmetal is admitting. But it's just as easy to see that it would be an exercise in futility to continue.

Edward storms from the office in a foul mood, snapping at Breda and ignoring Fuery's attempts to speak to him. Alphonse trots after him, helm low, his entire bearing suggesting upset, and Mustang watches them go with deep concern. Without question, something has happened, and he can only hope that whatever it is will turn out to be less alarming than it appears.

* * *

Near the end of the day, Hawkeye informs the Colonel that someone has arrived to speak with him. The stare she shoots him is loaded, but before he can question it Alphonse sidles into the room, bobbing a nervous bow in his direction. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," he says in his thin voice.

"Not at all." Sitting up straighter, Mustang gives him a warm smile to mask his surprise. "What can I do for you, Alphonse?"

Gauntleted hands clasp together uneasily. "First of all, please don't tell my brother that I came here," he replies after a pause, shifting from foot to foot. "I hate coming behind his back, but I'm not sure what else to do."

"You're worried about him again."

The fierce-looking helm dips in assent. "He's getting worse. Brother's always been driven, but this goes beyond any obsession he's had before. He doesn't talk about anything other than his research, and even then only to me. I don't think he's had a normal conversation in months. He won't even let Breda and Fuery come over to play cards with me like they used to."

Edward has never denied his brother anything before. Mustang frowns, the anxiety he felt earlier flaring once more. "I assume you've spoken to him about this."

Alphonse hangs his head. "He says he wants to stay focused on getting me back to normal. And he's working really hard, but I think maybe he's working _too_ hard. Sometimes..." He pauses, his large hands trembling before balling into fists, and when he continues his voice is little more than a whisper. "Sometimes... he doesn't even seem like himself anymore. And after what we learned while on this mission-" The steel body flinches, the words cutting out so quickly that Mustang has no doubt they had come forth unintentionally.

Suspicions confirmed, he leans forward, his eyes avid on the glow in the younger Elric's helm. "What did you learn, Alphonse?"

"I-" Metal rattles, and even in armor Alphonse manages to look torn. "I'm sorry, sir," he says finally. "If Brother hasn't told you, then I don't think that I should either."

_Then I will be in the dark forever_, he thinks bitterly, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on his hands. Aloud, he asks, "Is this knowledge dangerous? To Edward, or anyone else?"

There is a pause as Alphonse considers, and the Colonel thanks heaven that at least one of the young men is reasonable. After a moment the younger Elric replies slowly, "I don't think so, sir."

Mustang nods, having expected the answer. Looking up at the towering figure, he says, "Well, I will have to trust your judgment on that then. Although I hope if you do discover that this information could do harm, that you will tell someone."

"Yes." Alphonse is silent another moment, before rubbing the back of his armored neck in embarrassment; a remarkably human gesture that Mustang finds oddly touching every time the young man does it. "Sir, can I ask a favor of you?"

The Colonel makes an expansive gesture. "Of course."

"Could you... talk to my brother? About shutting everyone out? It can't be good for him, and I don't think it helps him the way he thinks it does."

Too many memories; Edward pushing him away, holding himself aloof. Denying any connection between them. It's difficult for Mustang to keep the ache from his face when he replies, "I agree that it's unhealthy, Alphonse, but I doubt I have any ability to influence your brother. You saw how he treated me today. Edward is unlikely to listen to anything I have to say on the matter."

"Sir, other than myself, you're the only one he'll talk to at all. I know he can be rude, but he still goes to your house sometimes, so that's got to mean something... can't you please try and encourage him to open up again?" A note of pleading enters the young man's voice, and Mustang knows he can't refuse.

Shaking his head ruefully, he sighs, "I'll try, Alphonse. Don't expect anything to come of it, but I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, sir!" Somehow Alphonse manages to fill his voice alone with all the emotion he cannot express otherwise as he bobs forward in a bow. "Please excuse me now- I need to get back to the library before he misses me." He pauses, then adds, "Maybe if we finish up early, he'll come see you tonight. I hope so. Brother needs to realize that there are other people who care about him."

Mustang freezes in the process of reaching for his pen. Alphonse is watching him, impassive gaze from an emotionless helm, and the Colonel wishes he could somehow read the thoughts going on behind that blank mask. _Does he suspect?_

But he is accustomed to deflecting suspicions, hiding his intentions. Recovering smoothly, he retrieves the pen and gives the younger Elric his most disarming smile. "Of course. My door is always open, to both of you."

* * *

Alphonse's words are on his mind when the knock comes upon his door that evening. Rising to answer it, Mustang wonders if the younger Elric had any hand in sending Edward to him that night, or if his assessment of his brother's activities is simply that astute. He rather hopes it's the former, though such an arrangement leaves him unsettled by guilt. Would Alphonse still willingly send his beloved brother to Mustang's home if he knew what they did there?

Edward gives him his customary nod as he enters, shucking his coat and tossing it on the rack, but the familiar nature of the routine is belied by the young man swinging around with a furious snarl. "Nosy bastard. Asking me all those fucking questions today- if I'd wanted to tell you all that shit, I'd have just written it down in the first place! How many times do I have to say I don't wanna think about it!"

Ah, that. "As you told me once, we all have jobs to do," he replies, straightening the red coat on the peg as he follows Ed to the den. "I imagine you'd rather deal with my questions than, say, General Malvern's."

Edward pauses in the midst of slipping his black jacket off and draping it over the arm of the sofa. "Okay, I'll give you that," he agrees, a fraction less angry, and Mustang reaches out to pull Edward into his arms, hold him. But his fractious lover darts back, catching the sleeve of the Colonel's uniform jacket as the older man moves close to him. "Take this shit off, Mustang."

He starts to shrug the jacket off, until Fullmetal decides he's moving too slow and drags it from his shoulders. Tosses it aside, and all the while Ed's growling a string of unintelligible urgings at him to hurry, hurry. The casual haste hurts, and while the young man's hands are busy with the buttons of his white shirt he says, "Roy."

Edward stops, squinting up at him. "What?"

"My name."

"I know it's your name. What about it?"

He shrugs, cloth slipping loosely around his shoulders. "It seems strange, the way you always call me by my last name or my rank."

Fullmetal _hmphs_, untucking the Colonel's shirttails with a decisive yank. "What's so strange about it? I've always called you that. Well, that and bastard, and whole lot of other names..." He gives a toothy grin that slowly dissolves as he studies Mustang's face. "Shit.. you're serious_?"_

One corner of the Colonel's mouth lifts in a self-conscious smile. "After all... _this_, it just feels impersonal."

Gold eyes flash, wary, a warning moving in their depths. "It _is_ impersonal. That's kind of the point."

He leans in, attacking the sensitive place below Edward's ear with lips and teeth, sucking until he can feel the other man's moan vibrating up through his chest. Nibbling upwards, Mustang traces the shell of his ear with a delicate tongue before murmuring against his skin, "_This_ is not impersonal."

Hands strike his shoulders, hard, jolting him away. "Asshole," Edward growls, showing teeth. "Stop fucking with me. It better _not_ be fucking personal."

Mustang sighs, hands stroking up Edward's arms to his shoulders, smooth steel and warm, tanned skin. "Why are you so adamant about distance?" he asks. "Is it really so terrible, that someone might care about you?"

"Shit. Not this again." Edward steps back, glaring malice as he pulls away from Mustang's caress. His arms cross, clasping each other tight. "Can't you just take things as they are?"

Fullmetal is shutting down, closing himself off once more, and he can't let him do that. "Edward. Please, can't you just..."

"No!" The young man takes a sharp step back, bristling, defensive. His mouth pulls into a tight scowl, almost quivering. "Just drop it!"

Mustang reaches out for him again, but Fullmetal moves to put the sofa between them. "Why can't we even discuss this?" he asks.

"Why do you keep bringing it up!" Edward shouts back, white-knuckled grip on the furniture echoing a face gone pale with anger and pain. "Do you _enjoy_ making me feel like shit?"

This wasn't supposed to happen. Everything is going wrong. "I'm not trying to make you feel like shit," he explains, anxious to bring the conversation back under control. "I'm trying to..."

"I _know_ what you're trying to do, and I _don't_ want you to do it." The words are spat out like venom, and the Colonel lets his hands drop to his sides.

"I've only ever wanted to help you," he says quietly, and receives a sneer in return.

"This isn't the sort of thing that talking about helps, okay? Just-" He tosses his head, eyes wide and filled with something corrosive and ugly just like the Colonel's own eyes, reflected from his mirror in the cold hours of the night. "Just leave it, Mustang, leave it the _fuck_ alone!"

"Not talking about it isn't an option that works either. People are concerned about you, your brother-"

A low growl, wolf-deep, dangerous. "You leave my brother out of this."

"He's worried," Mustang insists, "just like the rest of us. You can't possibly think you could hide from him the way you've cut contact with nearly everyone else? It hurts him to watch you isolate yourself. It hurts _me_, and-"

"Oh, _poor_ you. You need me to spell it out for you? Will that make you feel _better_?" Edward interrupts, scathing, not waiting for a reply before exploding, "I don't _want_ to feel anything, okay? I don't want it, and I don't need it!"

The young man spits the words violently into the air between them, a furious repudiation that leaves Mustang cold. "Nothing?" he says incredulously, treacherous concern creeping past his carefully cultivated neutrality. "Edward, you can't go through life that way."

"Fuck off!" Eyes gleaming, the young man trembles as he glares fury into the Colonel's face. "Caring doesn't exactly work for me, alright? Shit, I cared about Benny, and Nina and Lieutenant Hughes, and my m-mom..." His voice strangles out on the last word; he is stark white except for two spots of high color in his cheeks, and Mustang wants so badly to touch him. "It fucking _hurts_, and it's tearing me apart, and I'm _sick_ of letting it, I'm done, I'm fucking _done_."

Silence reigns for a long moment, and then Mustang asks, very quietly, "What about Alphonse?"

He braces for another explosion, but Edward only stares at him, chest heaving. When he finally finds his voice, it's not the aggressive attack Mustang expected, but something soft and uneven. "You think caring about Al doesn't hurt?"

There's nothing he can say to that, and Mustang feels sick at the admission. Edward's face draws tight into a horrifying grimace that alarms the Colonel until he realizes the young man is fighting back furious tears "Every time I look at him," Edward says in that same low voice, "I'm reminded of what I did. To my brother. My _brother_. And I every time I touch him... every time I _look_ at him," - wood cracks beneath his automail hand, arms shaking in their grip- "-I remember that it's _my_ _fucking_ _fault!_"

A deep, shattering breath. "And it _hurts_. It hurts _so_ _much_, Al _never_ deserved to be like that, and I never meant- So maybe... I probably deserve for it to hurt. But I'll always love Al." He glares back up at the Colonel with glittering eyes, gone cold and forbidding. "But nobody else. I'm not gonna hurt like that for anyone else."

"Edward, you can't... You can't cut yourself off like that." Appalling; that's what it is, and he cannot stand by and listen without saying so. "It's not healthy."

"It's my fucking choice! I can handle it."

"You're _not_ handling it! Edward, don't tell me to let it go- you came to me for help! So please, let me help you. Just let it out!"

An indrawn breath, eyes widening. "Let it out? Let it- _fuck you._" The young man looks positively murderous, teeth bared and nearly spitting in his fury. "Where the hell do you get off telling _me_ that? You piece of shit, fucking _hypocrite_."

The sudden rage surprises him, and Mustang only has time to blink in surprise. "What?"

Edward springs around the couch, stalking toward him, and this time the Colonel is the one falling back. "You heard me," the young alchemist growls, dangerous and low in his throat. " Let it out? How about you, Mustang? That apply to you too? How the fuck you think you're gonna atone when you don't even know what you did?"

He's never heard this tone of voice from Edward before, and a shivering note of warning sounds through his bones. Very carefully, he says, "I know what I did."

But Edward will not be placated. "No you don't, you don't know _anything_. You don't know _who_ you killed. You don't remember, and you fucking well should!"

"How? I was nineteen years old, I didn't know any better." Terror is building; he doesn't want to think about these things, he can't-

"Oh _fuck_ you, that's bullshit and you know it! How long have you been running from this shit? What's the number, Mustang? How many?"

The Colonel takes another involuntary step back, Fullmetal following relentlessly and he's falling, slipping backwards off the crumbling lip of a precipice he never saw coming. Each question is a sure shot, a cruel blow striking straight for the heart of his disease and casting light into the shadows he'd wanted to leave hidden forever.

"How many people?" A flash of fang; Edward is going for his throat. "Can you tell me?"

_I can't_, he wants to answer, but his voice has been ripped away. _Please, I couldn't..._

Edward stalks in a circle around him, face gone feverish white. "You still don't know, do you?" he jeers, the taunt flaying the Colonel's old injury. "You _owe_ them, and you haven't got any idea! Do you? _Do you?_"

Some deeply buried survival sense awakens within him, and in desperation he cries, "They never told me!" and Edward lunges forward with burning eyes.

"_You never asked!_"

_I'm sorry!_, screams inside of his head, staring aghast at the furious young man and Mustang can feel Ishval's winds blowing once again. I_'m sorry, I've _always_ been sorry! Don't make me go back there... _But Edward rants on, anger making him mindless of the horrific wound he's torn cruelly open.

"When you know," he snarls, snatching his jacket up from the sofa, "When you can look me in the goddamn eye and tell me how many people you killed, _then_ you'll have earned the right to talk to me like that. And until then," he favors the Colonel with a scathing look, "I'm doin' it my way."

He wants to follow, as Fullmetal whirls around to leave, wants to protest, or explain. But his feet are mired in desert sands, and his throat is too tight to speak. At the door to the room Edward pauses, throwing one last furious glare over his shoulder, and the Colonel thinks he glimpses a hint of remorse darkening those golden eyes before he's gone. But he cannot move; footsteps clatter in the hallway, a rustle of fabric as the coat is yanked from the rack; the front door slams and Edward is gone, and it's everything Mustang can do just to keep breathing.

Within his mind, the darkness stirs. The door to his nightmares swings wide and he stares inside, only to see Ishval staring back.

* * *

He goes to the office the next day and the days that follow, even though everything inside him feels broken, splintered like glass. He works steadily, and if he is more subdued than normal, it's not enough to warrant attention. But it's just another act, another mask, and when he catches his wan reflection in a mirror he wonders if he has ever been more than just that. A pretense, an excuse. A lie.

Painful days spin into agonizing weeks, and Mustang wonders how he hasn't gone insane already. He still goes through the motions of his job in a haze of exhaustion, and at home he drinks until late at night, when sleep finally chases him down. A few hours, wracked with nightmares, and he awakens to the pre-dawn darkness, waiting for his alarm to ring so that he can rise and begin pretending once more that he isn't falling apart.

Hawkeye has begun eyeing him askance, concern for his faltering productivity evident in her astute gaze, and not for the first time he finds himself idly questioning how much she knows, or suspects. However she says nothing, though he feels her quizzical gaze upon him as he moves through the days on automatic. If he were able, he would wish to reassure her, but he has been carved hollow and has nothing left to offer. It is hard enough to simply make it through each day.

Edward seldom comes to the office now. Nothing short of a direct order brings him in, and even then he is silent and tight with unspoken anger. He won't look at the Colonel, and Mustang is strangely relieved by this, for his shame before the younger man is immeasurable. Look your sins in the eye, unflinching, and never forget; the errors of Edward's past may pale next to Mustang's atrocities, but Fullmetal has never once let himself look away from them. Not like he has.

_You spit in the face of your demons_, he thinks with an ache in his chest, watching Edward stalk out of his office yet again, braid bristling, shoulders tense. _ You're nothing like me._

When Fullmetal isn't in the office, the young man and his brother seem to be living at the library. Breda has seen them carrying armloads of books to the dorms, and Havoc confirmed that the librarians have to shoo them from the study rooms every night. Edward has always been driven in his research, and ever since he stomped out of the Colonel's house he has thrown himself into his books and notes with renewed intensity. Perhaps, Mustang reasons, he has found a new way to sublimate his own horrors.

He could wish he was able to say the same.

Glancing down from his office window one evening as he prepares to go home, Mustang catches sight of the Elrics heading back to the dorms from the library. Edward's flesh hand clings to his brother's arm to guide him as he walks, completely absorbed in reading a sheaf of papers clutched in his other hand. Even from the distance, he knows the content of those papers- Mustang can recognize the coded notes he'd had made of Cradshaw's journal. He immediately stands, no thought in his mind other than to go out, try to speak to Edward... but the brothers are gone by the time he makes it outside, and no justification he can think of is sufficient to follow them.

He doesn't sleep at all that night.

The long hours of painful wakefulness give him more time to think than he cares for. He's been dishonest with himself for too long to feel comfortable in confronting these prevarications, but Fullmetal's example stands strong in his mind. It's time to face the things he has hidden from himself, all the truths he's buried. His actions in Ishval, his feelings for Edward- he cannot go forward without acknowledging both. No more lies, no more secrets. If one is to come out, then the other as well. Feverish-tired, he resolves to embrace them all.

But such decisions do not ease his dream-wracked nights. At last, feeling his control slipping and fatigue burning from his eyes, one morning Mustang braves Hawkeye's displeasure and calls in to the office. She is surprisingly accommodating, perhaps having seen through his charade with her usual acumen Hanging up the phone, he hopes he might be able to find some rest during the day, while the sunlight burns away all the shadows.

Returning to bed, he curls beneath the sheet, cheek pressed to his pillow as he watches the curtains billow gently from the morning breeze. Just a few hours, he muses drowsily. Just a little rest, unbroken by nightmares, and he will be able to think...

His eyelids sag, and sleep takes him.

* * *

He can feel them out there, men with guns, warrior priests. Thick, oily black smoke rolls along the street, obscuring his view, but even unseen he can still feel their hate. Hidden from his flames, watching him, waiting for an opening to strike... movement flashes in the corner of his vision, a flicker of sand-brown, glint of red eyes, and he falls back, one hand scrabbling desperately for his pocket. Just one moment, one mistake; if he can only get his glove on he'll be safe, but he can feel them bearing down on him through the smoke; gun raising, leveling to aim at his face and he screams his frustration and fear as he fights to work his hand into the rough cloth, and then-

_Fire._

* * *

His hands shake so badly he can barely dial the phone. Thoughts jumble and collide in his brain, shattering as he tries to focus on keeping them whole, rational. But somehow he manages to recall the numbers, and clings to the receiver as he listens to it ring on the other end of the line.

A click as the line connects. "What?" grumbles a gruff voice, sounding distracted.

It takes a couple attempts before he can make the word take shape. "Edward," he gasps.

There's a long pause, before Edward's voice sharpens. "Colonel?"

"Edward, I... please..."

"Where are you?"

"Home," he whispers, broken. "I-"

"Stay there," Edward commands. "I'll be over in ten minutes."

The dial tone buzzes in his ear, and he clumsily places the receiver back in its cradle. Shuts his eyes tight to block out the room, but the reek of char and smoke never goes away.

* * *

Edward doesn't bother knocking; a brief sizzle of alchemy, and Mustang hears the door swing open. There's a moment of silence, then the clomp of heavy boots making their unerring way up the stairs and then Edward is framed in his doorway, hair windblown and loose about his shoulders.

Mustang watches him enter, sees how his eyes pass over the room, taking in the scene before him. The twisted knot of bedsheets; his gloves, flung far away upon the floor. The scorched bedroom wall, blackened streaks climbing up onto the ceiling, the burnt tatters that remain of the curtains. That bright gaze lingers on the damage for a moment before it settles back upon him, and the look on Edward's face is inscrutable as he toes off his boots, crawling onto the bed alongside the Colonel. "And you say _I_ cause trouble," he mutters, winding his arms around Mustang's shoulders and pulling him close.

Mustang simply presses his face against Edward's chest, breathing in his clean scent, untainted by fire and ash. He leans into the younger man's support as the tremors that have rattled him slowly abate, feeling safer than he has in weeks. For once Mustang isn't tempted to question the comfort he's offered, letting Edward hold him, appreciating that moment. When the frantic race of his heart has calmed he lifts his head, meets Fullmetal's searching look with a rueful grimace.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I don't know what..."

A metal hand reaches up, cool fingers gentle as they brush his bangs back. "Don't think about it."

Mustang captures the automail hand in his. "That's the problem, isn't it?" he asks hoarsely. "Ignoring these things. It doesn't make them go away, they never go away, and I _knew_ that but..."

"Mustang." An intense gold stare. "You're okay."

"Am I?" he wonders aloud, and closes his eyes against the pain that surges within him. The arms around him tighten, and Mustang is desperately, pathetically grateful for the warmth of Edward's presence, driving back the shadows and the nightmares once again. It had been so cold, so empty, without him.

The chill returns as the arms withdraw, and for a moment he wants to howl with desolation at their loss. But there's a hiss of a zipper, the susurration of fabric sliding, and then bare flesh pressing against his body. Insistent hands work at his own clothing, and he gives himself over to them, acquiescing to Edward's silent demands. Soon they are skin to skin, desperate and wild and Mustang tugs the young man down with a too-hard grip, lipping at an ear as he grinds against that firm body.

"You came here," he groans, as nimble fingers stroke his length. "For me. You came."

Above him, Edward makes an animal sound in his throat. "Don't think about that right now. Think about this..."

The world spins as the young man rolls them over, tugging him after until he's lying atop Edward, his fear bleeding away beneath the rising onslaught of desire. Mustang can barely think; hands and teeth, legs intertwined, and they are somehow locked in a savage kiss that he can't recall starting, but he is losing himself in it and it's the only thing that makes sense anymore.

Mad eyes glint up at him, twin suns. "_This_," Edward purrs, wriggling wantonly and guiding the head of Mustang's cock toward the cleft in his cheeks. "This, right here."

His senses are exploding, all he can feel, see, taste is Edward, all he wants, all he's ever wanted. "Yes. Oh, _yes..."_

* * *

"So... This time it was about you." Edward tilts his head as he yanks the tight leather pants back up and searches for his belt. "Guess this," and he nods back toward the bed, " is helping you too then?"

Mustang watches him, admiring the ripple of muscle along Fullmetal's sculpted torso. "Yes," he replies, warmth suffusing him as he thinks again, _you came. I needed you, and you came_. "It does."

"Ah." A grin flashes his direction. "Yeah. Kinda figured our monsters would be so busy fighting each other they'd give us both some peace." Edward grunts as he snatches up the missing article and begins to fasten it about his waist. "So, it's equivalent then. Don't wanna be in your debt anyway."

It seizes him suddenly then, in the offhand dismissal; it's time, it's so far _past_ time, and this moment may never come again. "It's not just that, Edward."

Silence. Hands still on his belt, Edward looks up at him, an immediate flood of tension holding him wary as a caged wolf. The brief sense of camaraderie has fled, but Mustang is sick of hiding this, exhausted with pretending. The younger man stares at him, _glares_ from across the bed, and whispers in a thin rasp, "Don't say it."

He should feel threatened, standing naked and exposed beneath that furious gaze. But all Mustang can feel is buoyant liberation. Almost giddy with this freedom and heedless of the warning in Edward's eyes, he shakes his head. "No. It needs to be said."

"Don't _say_ it! Don't fucking open your mouth!" Bristling fury; Edward is spitting with menace, advancing around the bed with fists clenched at his sides. "You know I don't want to hear it, don't fucking say it!"

"Edward, I have to. Because I lo-"

Pain explodes along his jaw, and Mustang crashes backwards, falling. One arm catches with a jarring snap on the edge of the bed, and he lands hard on his rump, dazed from the blow. Above him, Edward looms, fists clenched and arms tensed, the knuckles of his left hand reddened from the swift punch he'd thrown before Mustang ever saw him move. Instinct shrieks at the Colonel to duck, roll away, escape the danger radiating from those incandescent eyes, but searching Edward's face he can see past the shield of anger and contempt. Around all of the young man's walls, straight to the cold knot of terror hiding at the base of it all.

"Shut _up_!" Edward screams, very nearly shaking from the extremity of emotion. "I don't want to _hear_ that shit from you! I don't _want_ that from you! _You're fucking everything up!_"

His jaw throbs. He rubs it, making sure it isn't broken before attempting to speak. "Calm down," he mutters thickly, tasting blood on his words. "You don't need to shout."

"The _fuck_ I don't!" Still breathing heavily, face red, but no longer screaming. Fullmetal flexes his fingers, taking a step back, away from the Colonel. His face has a hunted look, and it stabs clear through Mustang's chest to see it there.

"You're fucking things up," Edward repeats. "You know that can't happen. That was the deal."

Pulling himself up, the Colonel takes a careful seat on the edge of the bed, watching Fullmetal pace with agitation. "But it did happen. It's not something I planned, and I can't control it, deal or no."

"I don't _want_ it! I don't want you to care about me, dammit! Can't you... can't you just _stop_?" Almost pleading, wrapped in desperate rage, but there is so much fear evident in Edward that a piece of Mustang wants to buckle, agree to anything just to make it go away. Instead he meets that furious gaze with silence, compassion and love for this man, just as damaged as himself, swelling within him until Edward whirls away with a curse.

"It's done then," the young man declares, voice muffled and cracking. "I can't deal with this. I shoulda known... You're too attached, it's over..."

"The hell it is." Edward spins back around to face the Colonel, who glares at him despite the pain in his face. "Who else is going to take your nightmares away?

Fullmetal's face pales, and goes still. "Fuck you," he whispers.

"Edward..." A sigh hisses out as he hauls himself to his feet, jaw throbbing at the movement. "I just wanted... I needed you to know. I care about you. I can't keep pretending this means nothing to me. I'm not asking you to feel anything back."

"That's good, 'cause I won't," Fullmetal snaps. "Won't feel a damn thing. This doesn't mean _anything_."

"Not to you, perhaps."

Edward looks purely miserable, staring at the door as though longing for escape. "You're a fucking idiot, Mustang," he finally growls. "You know this won't work. I've got to fix Al, and you've got to take over the world or something, and we could both die any goddamn day." His head snaps up, hawk's gaze upon the Colonel's face. "I'm not gonna play your fucking game. And you're an asshole for pulling this shit on me."

Mustang watches as Fullmetal snatches his coat from the floor, shoving his arms through the sleeves with more violence than is necessary. "It's no game," he replies, and doesn't shrink from the sneer Edward throws at him. Stomping to the door, the young man tosses his unbound hair back over his shoulder and gives him a level, almost calm stare.

"Don't get attached to things you can lose, Colonel," Edward states softly, his eyes intense and unreadable.

He turns to go, but stops again at Mustang's voice.

"I already lost you once," he says, quiet, but the words ring with conviction through the room nonetheless. "Don't tell me what risks not to take. I'm not going to lose you again without saying these things." He waits until Edward turns, meets the sunrise gaze with determination. "I love you."

He's ready for the retort, for shrieks of anger and abuse. He's prepared to be hit again, and to receive those blows as an embrace. But Edward simply glares at him, mouth drawn into a tight, unhappy bow, eyes glittering. Devoid of wrath, face full of devastation and helplessness. He doesn't deny, or struggle against the Colonel's pronouncement, only stares it down with a horrible fatalism. Then abruptly Edward's expression folds, as though something is about to burst forth and he spins around, one hand clenching on the doorframe.

"Fuck you," he repeats, but his voice is broken and thin. "Fuck you, Mustang." And then he's gone.


End file.
